


the infinity in our (alternate) universes

by charlietinpants



Category: Star Trek, Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: Canonical major character death, Ensemble Cast, F/M, Friends to Lovers, Genius James T. Kirk, Genocide, Hurt/Comfort, Idiots in Love, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M, Mutual Pining, Non-Linear Narrative, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Slow Burn, Space Husbands, Tarsus IV, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-02
Updated: 2020-07-02
Packaged: 2021-03-04 21:53:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 31,905
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25013470
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/charlietinpants/pseuds/charlietinpants
Summary: The path from Cadet to Captain was never predicted to be smooth-sailing. Jim navigates the difficulties of a meteoric rise and learns what it means to be a leader, brother, friend and soulmate along the way.On the flip side, from the moment Spock touches Jim, he becomes aware that Jim is t’hy’la, but misinterprets the enduring nature of his loyalty to be platonic. As the depth of their friendship deepens with time, a near-fatal misadventure at the end of their five-year mission drives Spock to re-evaluate the nature of his relationship with Jim and what it means to be t’hy’la.A non-linear narrative on Jim's relationships with his ship, his crew and of course, Spock.
Relationships: James T. Kirk/Spock, initial Spock/Uhura
Comments: 50
Kudos: 444
Collections: T’hy’la Bang 2020





	the infinity in our (alternate) universes

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the T'hy'la Bang 2020 challenge.
> 
> This nagging plotline bugged me to write a second fic for the challenge even though i was knee-deep in writing the other bang fic. I somehow managed to pull off writing two novella-length fics (holy crap) in the midst of a pandemic while struggling with work, and is basically a huge deal for me. 
> 
> A ginormous thank you to my Star Trek soulmate [Kei](https://archiveofourown.org/users/keikei_firefly/pseuds/keikei_firefly) who, by fate, matched with me for this fic. It turns out she and I are so damn similar except she's german, artistic and legitly 200 times cooler. She is the entire reason both of my fics are completed on time, and I pretty much owe her the damn world (and my firstborn). Meeting her through the bang was by far the best thing that came out of this bang for me. She drew such freaking amazing art for this fic -- please check out her other works on [ tumblr](https://firefly-party.tumblr.com/) and [twitter](https://twitter.com/keikei_firefly) (for you folks who like NSFW goodness) and shower her with much deserved love. She is amazeballs. You can also check out the art for the fic [here](https://archiveofourown.org/works/18804478/chapters/60628147) as well. (I also blame her entirely for showing me a canonical image of Spock's ID mentioning a kahs-wan ritual mark as one of his identifying marks)
> 
> Again, I owe my betas [AgentStannerShipper](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AgentStannerShipper) and KaiAkai who very kindly poured through the entire fic to make it the coherent picture it is today. 
> 
> And lastly, a big thank you to the mods: museaway, sciencebluefeelings and wearingmywings for moderating this challenge tirelessly.

There are whispers that James T. Kirk is slated to graduate Starfleet Academy as a full-fledged Captain. 

It’s unheard of, a wet behind the ears Cadet jumping up the ranks of Starfleet hierarchy, and ordinarily, Pike would have been the first to talk the Admiralty down from that particularly precarious ledge of questionable decision-making. Only this is Jim they’re talking about, and Pike’s the brilliant soul who put his name up for a commendation in the first place. 

Realistically speaking, Pike does expect the Admiralty to push Jim up a rank or two after the events of the Narada. Hell, he’d understand if they made him a Lieutenant Commander or a Commander with a goal of becoming a Captain in three. Starfleet would be blind not to notice the strength of command in Jim’s bearing, nor the focused intelligence and exceptional problem-solving skills deftly hidden behind those baby-blue eyes. Jim is also a Kirk, through and through, and as much as the Fleet likes to pretend there’s no such thing as nepotism, the Kirk name means something in this day and age. It definitely helps that Jim is plenty pretty to look at, and Starfleet could never resist a dashing pretty-boy Captain. 

So there are rumours, and Jim’s name comes up in the formal nominations to take command of the _Enterprise_ and Pike has to pause his physical therapy half-way to read the comm from HQ three times, because huh. He didn’t see that coming. 

His first response is to shut that bout of craziness down, but Pike hesitates. He knows the Kirk blood, the Kirk spirit. It was never destined for mediocrity. He knew that, even when he was scraping a drunken, directionless mess off a tavern floor. 

And if there’s one thing Pike has prided himself on— it’s damn good instincts. They haven’t betrayed him yet. Perhaps this fit of inspired insanity is precisely what’s needed to drive the Fleet to greater heights, with a Kirk helming their flagship, pushing the boundaries and leaping when a lesser man would pause. 

Pike signs the recommendation. God, he hopes that Kirk’s not going to foul this up and make him look bad. A steadying influence might be required. 

He looks at the nominations for First Officer and smiles. 

* * *

It is six weeks before the planned departure of the _Enterprise_ when all cadets receive their assignments — Nyota, unsurprisingly, graduates with honours and is slated to become the _Enterprise_ ’s Chief Communications Officer. She hears through the grapevine that Sulu, Chekov and McCoy have all accepted posts on board the _Enterprise_ , and their Captain is likely to be James T. Kirk. 

Nyota doesn’t like Kirk, not at all. He’s rude and reckless, arrogant and self-serving, not to mention an incorrigible flirt, all traits she finds unappealing and reprehensible. She finds it difficult to forgive him given the terrible words he throws at Spock on the bridge to put his plan in motion, and even though she now understands his reasoning, the ends still do not justify the means.

That being said, Nyota is a practical being. As much as she dislikes him personally, Nyota does respect him and will admit (grudgingly) that he will likely make an excellent Captain. The Enterprise possesses the most technologically-advanced communications equipment in the fleet, and Nyota has always dreamed of the privilege of pioneering advancements in linguistics and phonology. It’s almost a no-brainer, and of course Nyota accepts— she’s not an idiot. She tries not to care too much, even when Spock tells her he intends to leave Starfleet to establish the new Vulcan colony. It would do nothing for her to mourn the loss of the fledgeling, tenuous connection, something so fragile and precious in its beginnings that it would be devastating to lose as if it had not truly begun at all. 

Nyota does not believe in what-ifs. Above all, she understands, and she lets Spock go with a kiss on the cheek and a fond goodbye. 

On the bridge, she calls Kirk Captain with minimal sarcasm and takes her place at the communications console as if she’s always belonged there all along. She stands, tall and proud, head held high, a Lieutenant in her own right, ready for the unknown. 

And if Spock appears just as the _Enterprise_ is about to leave, that makes her pleasure all the more sweeter.

* * *

It’s too quiet. 

Jim has visited more than three hundred planets in his career, many alien and treacherous, a good proportion deadly to mortal flesh with a single misstep. None of them come close to the sense of dread Beta Aurigae III sparks within him, an unearthly silence that inspires foreboding and unease in the pit of his stomach. 

It’s not Tarsus. He knows this. 

He knows this. 

It doesn’t stop him from reflexively reaching into his pocket for the energy bar he’s hidden there, a grim reminder of a learned behaviour Jim has found difficult to forget. 

The forest is quiet but for the delicate crunching of dry leaves beneath their feet. The lack of wildlife unnerves him — and in Jim’s experience, any place this quiet? Nothing good. 

It speaks volumes that Jim, wary and on edge after a world of experience scrounging for scarce food off a forest floor, hears the sharp click of a pressure sensor depressing under Spock’s foot before Spock does. 

Jim moves and doesn’t hesitate.

* * *

It is only on the bridge, after Spock has placed his hands on Kirk’s being and threatened to smother the breath from his body that he realises that Kirk’s mind, colourful, frenetic and labyrinthine, is exceedingly compatible with his own. 

Even during his moment of weakness, Spock’s mind unconsciously reached for Kirk’s, desiring to form a connection that Spock does not want, nor does he fully understand. It does not happen, fortuitously, as Spock lets go and Kirk is left gasping for air. 

Spock does not forget this, even when they put their differences aside, working in tandem as First Officer and Captain, achieving a natural rhythm that Spock cannot help but feel— perhaps this is what was meant to be. In unison, they are a force to contend with, and Spock acknowledges: the Kobayashi Maru was no statistical coincidence. This capricious human is destined to be a leader. 

His leader, as his alternate self has foretold. One he will be content to follow to the ends of the universe, his counterpart informs.

Spock does not like Kirk. Nor does he understand him, but he does know what they may come to be. 

The formation of a spontaneous bond is rare, and Spock has heard enough folktales of the _t’hy’la_ bond to know it is cherished among his people. The warrior bond speaks of loyalty and brotherhood, a deep friendship that Spock has never envisioned for himself. 

Perhaps it will never come to pass, and Spock, ever logical, does not fill himself with fanciful thoughts and desires, with want. 

For now, what he knows is this— Spock chooses to become the _Enterprise_ ’s First Officer and to call Kirk his Captain. If Spock were prone to metaphor, he would consider Kirk a roughly-hewn gemstone, given to shine with adequate polish and care. Kirk is new to the intricacies of command, and Spock is not unfamiliar with what is expected of a Starfleet Captain.

Spock is, after all, an educator. Under his instruction, his estimates of a mutually-satisfying working relationship being formed are not insignificant. In the face of such reassuring probabilities, it is only logical to proceed. 

* * *

Jim’s slated to become Captain of the _Enterprise_ , and of course he’s smiling that smug shit-eating grin he knows Uhura loves to hate, only so she can’t see that he’s secretly freaking out a little inside.

I mean— him, a Captain. It’s got a great ring to it, Captain James T. Kirk. Jim expected to graduate a Lieutenant on track to becoming a Captain in four years, maybe. He’s not ready for this, but it’s not like he was ready for the staggering field promotion he received when he knowingly pushed Spock to the limits of his self-control. 

And yeah, Jim’s fresh from a shiny new victory against time-travelling Romulans, most of the reason the crew is alive is that Jim is a repository of quick wit, a bit of applied physics and was born a son of historical figures. Jim should be puffed up with hot air, gloating and grinning with a swagger in his step. But he can’t, not really, not when he’s to be a Captain of a Constellation-class vessel, four hundred and ten souls under his command and fuck — he’s going to be responsible for all of them.

God forbid Jim T. Kirk would ever express a hint of uncertainty. 

Yeah, so Jim’s scared shitless. But Jim’s never been one to take the easy route, and fear is a fantastic motivator. Fear keeps you sharp and on your toes, and Jim’s a cocky bastard but not a stupid one. 

In his remaining six weeks, Jim takes every remaining advanced course in Command Tactics that he can, playing fast and loose with Academy course credits. The sheer force of will required would normally astound Pike, except he’s not, this is George’s kid they’re talking about, the bright spark bouncing red-alert scenarios off him in the wee hours of the morning until Pike decides he’s had enough. 

“Face it, kid. No one ever said this would be easy. We’re throwing you into the deep end, but you’ll either sink or swim, and my wager? You’ll swim, because there’ll be hell to pay if you don’t. Some of this you’ll have to figure out as you go along, and you’ll have to decide what kind of Captain you want to be. I can’t tell you what works because you’re you, and I’m me. No one’s expecting you to be me or Archer, or even your old man—” and Jim nearly interjects but he cuts him off, “— or they might expect you to be George Kirk, but we both know that’s not who you’re going to be.” 

“Be your own kind of Captain, son. Make it work,” Pike says with a grin. “I dare you.” 

Of course, Jim was never the kind of guy to take dares like that lying down. 

* * *

The forest is disturbingly silent, and Spock’s keen senses hear the audible click of the pressure sensor depressing under the weight of his boot. 

It is for the express protection of his Captain that Spock has deliberately walked two steps ahead of him, his lanky form capable of shielding Jim from injury in the event of an attack. His first thought is of anti-personnel explosives and removing the Captain from the blast radius, but Jim’s already pushing him aside, eyes grim and filled with terrifying resolve. 

Jim— Jim, his Captain, his commanding officer, his friend— drives him bodily to the ground, the tell-tale whistle of steel cutting through still air. The sickly soft thuds of metal meeting flesh forces his gaze upward in dread. 

Jim. Jim. 

Jim falls, the rich gold of his uniform darkening with red, multiple alien blades protruding from his side. Those same blue eyes, normally filled with laughter, are now dark with remorse. 

I’m sorry, he mouths as he falls, but Spock knows that it is a lie. He’s not sorry at all. 

* * *

Petty Officer McLaughlin, Maintenance, Operations Division, has spent his entire career fixing up starships. Constitution-class, Dreadnought-class, they’re all the same to him when turbolifts stall, the laundry processor malfunctions and replicators go outta whack. Still, he’s gotta admit, the new _Enterprise_ is a beauty, all sleek, shining metal and ample nacelles and clearly, McLaughlin has been spending too much time in Engineering. 

McLaughlin’s stuck ironing out a spot of trouble with the laundry processor, tweaking erroneous lines of code when he hears the doors to the Ship’s Laundry sweep open. He perks up immediately— Maintenance is usually a solo venture, and the other Operations boys know not to harangue him while he’s out on a job. He expects it’s probably his supervisory officer taking a peek in— it’s a new ship after all, and it’s common for new management to get a little antsy when things go wrong.

Really, the last thing he expects is the goddamn Captain poking his nose in. 

They’ve all watched the newsreels: the new Captain seems all flash and little substance, charming and flirtatious and excellent in front of the cameras, unlike the Vulcan block of wood the Captain calls his First Officer. Not that McLaughlin has a problem with Vulcans, mind you. He gets along with them fine, when they’re senior management and not directly involved in his life. He definitely respects this Spock character a hell of a lot more than Kirk, when the Commander gets things done and Kirk’s just along for the ride. 

Personally, he liked Christopher Pike plenty, and he’s sad the man had to go get himself promoted to Admiral. A waste of a good Captain, if you asked him. 

Still, a Captain’s a Captain, and McLaughlin freezes and goes into formal parade rest, wincing as his tool kit and hydrospanner go tumbling to the floor.

“Sir—” 

“At ease, Petty Officer McLaughlin,” the Captain smiles that easy pearly-white smile as he picks up McLaughlin’s tools, and McLaughlin goggles a little. It’s not often that a Captain, in charge of several hundred people, will remember his name and rank. “Just wanted to see what’s going on with my ship.”

“Well, sir, this here’s a newer model than the standard laundry processor installed on Constitution-class vessels. Fleet Engineers likely thought they were doing us a favour installing a new one. But this model’s buggered to all hell and—” McLaughlin goes crimson as the Captain lets out a laugh. “Pardon my french, sir.”

“No offence taken, McLaughlin. Logic errors or syntax?” The Captain asks.

“Logic error, sir. Null reference, I believe.” McLaughlin utters, eyes wide.

“Alright, then. Why don’t I give you a hand? I’ve some experience in programming myself, and maybe between the both of us, we’ll be done by the time Beta shift comes around.” Kirk says cheerily, pulling out a PADD from his pocket.

Code review and debugging is an art skill, and McLaughlin would consider himself a decent coder given his occupational exposure over the years. That being said, when the Captain tells him he has some experience in programming, he doesn’t expect Kirk to be a goddamn programming genius. Because that’s what he bloody well is. 

The Captain’s hands dance over the keys of the PADD, picking apart intricate lines of code that ordinarily would have McLaughlin reaching for a reference, reviewing and muttering absently to himself as he makes minute alterations. It’s over within thirty minutes and the McLaughlin’s just standing there addlepated like some village idiot, holding his PADD after correcting eighteen lines of code when the Captain has corrected two hundred and thirty. 

Flicking the machine back to operational, the Captain requests a Command yellow shirt, size M (code: C173672JK [Captain James T. Kirk, tailored]) which the laundry processor accommodatingly produces. 

“Excellent work, McLaughlin,” the Captain claps him firmly on the back. “Take tomorrow off, Captain’s orders.” 

“Aye, Captain,” McLaughlin says, still somewhat gobsmacked as the Captain takes his leave. 

One thing’s for sure, the new Captain is smarter than the newsreels give him credit for. Perhaps the next year won’t be such a hardship after all. 

* * *

It is a reasonable inference that Spock does not fully understand his new Captain. 

Spock has served under different Captains before — Terran eccentricities and mannerisms no longer unnerve him to the degree they once did, and yet Spock finds that Captain Kirk does not follow any of the traditional tenets of command utilised by most Captains. 

The Captain is different. He is involved. There is no question that his current performance meets expectations, yet Spock finds him more often than not during his free time in places a Captain would not necessarily be, talking to the crew, asking questions and taking notes on a PADD, lips pursed and eyebrows furrowed, as if it is within his job scope to understand the function of a proton flux inhibitor or know the different safety protocols of a biological lab containment leak. 

Spock’s initial concerns about crew morale and decreased efficiency with the added stressor of supervisory oversight are unfounded— he finds the crew are not discomfited by the Captain’s presence, willingly taking a few minutes of their time to answer the Captain’s queries. Spock, a scientist, finds laughter and physical touch a common denominator among the crew’s interactions with the Captain. Captain Kirk is a tactile individual, he realises, who expresses his affection and pleasure through physical contact: a gentle pat on the back for a job well done, an elbow nudged against the belly of the belligerent ship’s surgeon in amusement. From Spock’s observations, he is well-aware there are no inappropriate advances towards subordinates and Spock soon attributes the trait to be a peculiar human eccentricity on Kirk’s part. 

Still, it is altogether perplexing. Spock is aware the Captain is young and untrained. He wonders if it would be appropriate to gently guide him to pre-established protocols and decides to remotely upload them to the Captain’s PADD, with a note to the Captain to seek him out if he has any queries. 

The Captain never does, though Spock observes a barely perceptible tension in the line of the Captain’s shoulders during ensuing shifts, the tilt of his lips turned downward three point two eight times more often than before. Spock has noted the recurrent appearance of a frown— each negative facial expression has occurred directly following Spock’s participation in a verbal conversation with him. Ninety-three point three six of those events occur after Spock has attempted to guide the Captain verbally in decision-making matrices. Spock wonders if his performance has been substandard, or if the support he has intended to supply the Captain has been inadequate for the Captain’s needs. He reviews his performance and decides to make the necessary changes.

They are eight weeks into their mission when the Admiralty sends orders for the _Enterprise_ to be dispatched to provide aid and transport a prototypic seismic regulator to Gamma Scorpii V, a newly established member of the Federation plagued with recurrent geological disturbances. 

There are accomplished geologists on the _Enterprise_ , and Spock’s every expectation is that a small away team led by himself will be sent to the planet surface to analyse and evaluate data while the Captain oversees the dispatch of relief equipment and supplies from the safety of orbit. Of course, there is an expected level of risk on such away missions, but Spock has factored the statistics of yet another geological imbalance into account: the likelihood of another earthquake occurring in the next twenty-four hours is six point five-six percent, an acceptable margin when the benefits of further data outweigh the risk. 

On arrival to the planet’s orbit, the Captain overrides standard safety protocols and proposes to join the away team. Spock’s first visceral response is to reject it violently. 

“Captain, I object to your intentions to beam down with the away team,” Spock states, his tone a firm staccato against the relative silence of the bridge. It’s loud enough that the bridge crew goes quiet and Spock is left with the sound of his breathing and the Captain’s easy smile fading from his face. 

“Excuse me?” Captain Kirk asks, tone even and pleasant. 

“As Captain, your safety is of paramount importance and cannot be risked in such an endeavour given the unknown efficacy of the seismic regulator. Your role would be best served in orbit overseeing the relief efforts.” In the background, Spock catches a glimpse of Nyota’s agonised expression, and Spock is reasonably familiar with the skill of lipreading to be able to identify the word ‘no’ from the curve of her mouth. 

“My role here,” the Captain says, voice tinged with an emotion Spock is unable to name. “I see.” 

“It is only logical,” Spock affirms, and is privy to a muscle twitch in the Captain’s jaw. Captain Kirk is displeased by his words, Spock realises with some concern. It is not his intention nor his desire to cause his Captain upset. 

“Alright, Commander. You may beam down with your away party. Keep me updated regarding any developments.” Kirk finally utters quietly. “And Commander?”

“Yes, Captain?”

“A word in my quarters when you return.” 

Spock inclines his head in agreement and does not concern himself with further statistics of his Captain’s displeasure. 

* * *

The forest is silent but for the sound of Jim’s breath, each inhalation a harsh, heavy wetness against Spock’s neck as he cradles his Captain’s injured frame. Spock does not dare to move, for fear of triggering any further primitive traps laid by the Sondarians. His three attempts to hail the _Enterprise_ have failed thus far, and despite his initial calm, Spock involuntarily begins to feel distress overlay the edge of his thoughts. 

The blades are short but deep, curved and serrated— its goal to create maximal tissue destruction, maximal pain. Spock’s understanding of human xenoanatomy is adequate: the likelihood of Jim exsanguinating to death if he chooses to remove the blades without medical expertise is ninety-eight point six nine percent. Jim’s chances of dying in the next five minutes are at eighty-three point three percent. The odds are not promising, and Spock is— compromised. 

“H-hey. It’s okay.” Jim murmurs into the curve of his throat. 

“It is not.” Spock refutes, his voice bereft of his usual calm, his hands still pressed tight against Jim’s torso, careful not to dislodge the blades.

Spock is no fool, he is well-aware based on the angle and trajectory of the Sondarians’ pressure-release traps that he would have been grievously injured or dead if not for Jim’s intervention, the locations of the wounds corresponding directly with the vulnerability of his heart. Of course foolish, self-sacrificial Jim would take the blades that would have summarily ended Spock’s life.

“Yeah, it is. Couldn’t— couldn’t let you die.” Jim’s laugh is a messy, bloody one. “We’ll have matching scars.” 

“I would politely request that you cease talking, Captain,” Spock says desperately. 

“-s’thing wanted to tell you—” 

“Jim, please, not now—” 

“ _Enterprise_ to Spock, I repeat, _Enterprise_ to Spock, come in,” the comm crackles. 

“ _Enterprise_ , beam us up immediately!” Spock shouts into the comm and doesn’t care. 

* * *

As per Jim’s luck, a quake hits two hours after the away team beams down to the planet— a big one that rips a chasm into the ground two hundred feet wide, ripping Gamma Scorpii’s capital into shreds with the ease of tearing wet paper. 

In seconds, Jim’s hauling ass into the transporter control rooms, calling orders to beam the away team back up this instant, his breath a tight, uncomfortable pressure in his chest as he digs tiny red crescents into his palms. All hails to the away team are met in silence and Jim’s about to give the command to beam down to the planet himself when Chekov shouts a stream of triumphant Russian and the transporter hums a low gentle murmur. 

Five figures materialise on the transporter pad, dirty and mud-stained but blissfully, blissfully _alive_ — Jim nearly sags to the floor in sheer relief, but he doesn’t. 

“Are you alright?” Jim asks Spock tightly, as he watches his First Officer assist two members of the away team off the platform. Ensign G’tlu appears to be favouring her left arm, and Lieutenant Peralta’s face is a mess of bruises and cuts. Spock appears disheveled but otherwise unharmed. 

“I am adequate, Captain.” Spock’s tone is steady, and up close, Jim can see his brown eyes are a deep chocolate, smears of dirt outlining the angularity of his cheekbones, the tapered curve of an ear. A tiny trickle of green blood drips down Spock’s brow, which he discreetly wipes away. 

“Sick Bay now— that’s an order,” Jim states firmly, just as Spock’s mouth curves into an infinitesimal frown, as if he’s about to challenge Jim once again. Oh, for fuck’s sake. “ _Now_ , Commander,” and Spock’s mouth snaps closed. “Debriefing later, in my quarters, if and only if McCoy clears you to leave.” 

“Affirmative, Captain.” Spock concedes as the med techs usher him to Sick Bay. 

Jim doesn’t look back. 

* * *

The debriefing never happens, because Jim spends the next thirty-six hours on Gamma Scorpii V digging earthquake victims from the rubble. It’s his responsibility as a Starfleet Captain to coordinate search-and-rescue, and Jim the Captain knows— he knows all the theory, all the statistics, the exigency of the first forty-eight hours of rescue efforts. Jim, the traumatised Tarsus survivor, sees bodies and rubble and remembers death and starvation, clutches the energy bar hidden in his pocket with a tightly-gripped fist and thinks, not again. 

Disaster Site Head Quarters is a complete shit-show, and Jim only lasts two hours of the local government representative squabbling with the head of Disaster Aid before he’s out of his seat; he’s done, he’s just done with bureaucratic bullshit, they can kiss his ass. He leaves instructions to call Uhura if the two of them dig their heads out of their asses long enough to participate in rational discussion, he’s got better things to do. 

Victim extraction is horrible, messy, morale-crushing work, but Jim’s not unfamiliar with the process of digging through unstable rubble. He gets smeared in dirt and dust and blood, but at least he’s doing something instead of sitting on his hands. So Jim digs until his nails crack and his eyelashes are caked with dust, until his posture curves like a comma with exhaustion, until the sound of his name, said stiffly with that familiar tone of Vulcan disapproval makes him stand, and Spock’s there, not-frowning at him. 

“Captain, you are not functioning at optimal levels of efficiency.” Yeah, no shit, Sherlock. 

“Captain, I am unaware of how my previous statement has any associations with a fictional character from nineteenth-century investigative fiction.” Spock cocks an eyebrow. Oh. Brain- mouth filter, thank you. 

“Forget it, Commander. Your presence is unnecessary here. I’ll return back to the ship.” Damn, Jim’s hands are a mess, torn up by stray concrete, and Bones is going to pitch a fit. He’s walking back in silence, his disapproving Vulcan shadow at his back when Spock speaks. 

“Captain, it is unnecessary for you to participate personally in the physical rigours of victim extraction. Starfleet’s role is to primarily act as an intermediary for disaster aid and enforce search and rescue protocols.” Spock says, as Jim’s eyes go wide. 

And Jim just snaps, he’s just— 

“Hey, Spock, I know it might be hard for you to fathom this, but I wanted to.” Jim rounds on him furiously, resisting the urge to thrust an accusatory finger into his chest. “Because unlike you, I actually have fucking emotions. I didn’t get this job to be too goddamn high and mighty to get my hands dirty, and if you think otherwise, you’re a soulless son of a—” he clamps his mouth shut, watching as Spock’s eyes narrow.

“Please continue, Captain. I believe you were about to insult my mother, were you not?” Spock states, tone deceptively even, and Jim’s no good at reading Vulcans, but this Vulcan is definitely _pissed_. Pressure point: mom. Ding ding ding. 

They’re causing a scene and Jim’s fucking fuming, but he’s still aware that people are staring, and a goddamn command team about to tear each other’s head off is never any good for crew morale. They’re tense enough on the bridge as it is. 

“Okay, fuck this. We’re going to have this out tonight. Training rooms, fifteen minutes.” Jim affixes him with a ferocious glare, long enough until Spock nods. 

“Captain,” Spock says, and Jim stalks off. 

They materialise up to the _Enterprise_ separately. 

* * *

The room is a mess of noise and frenzied movement. 

The transition from empty silence and stillness to chaos is harsh and overstimulating on Spock’s senses, the sound of Dr McCoy barking out instructions above the fray of shouting distracting Spock from the primary focus of Spock’s attentions—

By instinct, Spock feels his body drift into the even focus of light meditation, tuning out the extraneous, and Spock remembers: Jim. _Jim_.

Jim smiling, blue eyes beautiful and filled with softness, grinning as he takes Spock’s queen and lays a trap which Spock can do nothing but fall into. Will you walk into my parlour, says the spider to the fly, Jim crows smugly, laughing as Spock concedes the game, the warmth of his hand brushing past his. Blue eyes warm and hair bright like the sun— _t’hy’la_ , always _t’hy’la_ , laughing and cheering but also dying on Beta Aurigae with the stain of red soaking into Spock’s clothes as he struggles to staunch the flow of his Captain’s lifeblood.

Jim. _T’hy’la_. 

Jim is dying, and Spock reaches forward to press gentle fingers to the meld points of Jim’s pale, clammy brow. He will ask Jim for forgiveness later. Later, but not now. 

“My mind to your mind, my thoughts to your thoughts,” Spock murmurs. Parted from me and never parted, never and always touching and touched, he does not say, but the words echo in his mind. 

The link— thin and glimmering, fragile and beautiful forms between them. Spock delves deep into the bond, lays down roots and does not let go. 

* * *

The training rooms are empty as Jim sets the privacy locks — he’d sent a warning to Giotto before coming that the rooms are off-limits for tonight. He’s washed the top layer of dust off his person and bandaged his hands, but Jim’s still amped up on adrenaline and frustration, the grit buried beneath the fingernails a testament to the pervasive reality of the day’s events. It won’t come off, the rage, the frustration, the lingering scent of loss and death that Jim needs to desperately forget, if only just for a moment. 

Spock enters, still dressed in science blues, an upswept eyebrow raised at Jim’s illogicality, bandaged hands and dirt-streaked face and god, Jim really wants to punch his face in. The tension is a fraught, tangible thing between them, and Jim desperately needs to resolve it before he gets so mad he’s tempted to shoot Spock out of an airlock. 

Physical violence is excellent therapy by Jim’s standards. 

“Shoes and shirts off. We’re sparring.” Jim says brusquely, removing his regulation exercise shirt before folding it and stashing it at the side. His back twinges with the movement, protesting the hours spent bent over with eyes peeled to the ground. It’s of no consequence— he welcomes the burn, the ride of muscles below fragile skin, the steady mortality of life an aching reminder around him. 

Jim’s shirtless and barefoot within seconds and Spock’s standing all affronted, nostrils flared in disgust like a Victorian governess at his vulgar display of bare skin. “Captain, this is hardly the ideal setting for us to complete our discussion—” Spock objects, and it’s enough to make Jim grind his teeth, even as he works the kinks out of his back and stretches till he feels lean and limber. 

“Yes, it is. You and I need to get whatever this is between us sorted out. We talk, we yell at each other and kick each other’s asses across the room until we no longer want to kill each other.” It’s simple, really. 

“I have no homicidal urges that I wish upon your person,” Spock sniffs, and Jim just rolls his eyes. 

“Look, if you don’t want to strip, fine, but the shoes come off. I don’t want to explain to our CMO why we have boot-shaped bruises tomorrow morning.” 

“Captain, you are injured and not in a fit state to engage in sparring for physical exercise—” Spock interjects, and it’s just enough that Jim sees red. 

“Goddamn it, Spock— why do you force me to make everything an order!” Jim’s snarl is an angry, ferocious thing that will not be denied, will not stay in his chest. “Take your fucking boots off and get on the mat.” 

It’s only with that outburst that Spock wordlessly capitulates, removing his boots (almost _sullenly_ ) before standing on the mat with his hands lightly clenched into fists. 

Oh, for the love of god. 

Jim strikes, quick as a viper, snaking a roundhouse kick aimed at the angularity of the Vulcan’s cheekbone. With the force of his blow, Jim will break his First Officer’s face if his foot meets its target — but Jim knows Spock’s skills, even if he has not earned Spock’s respect. Spock blocks him with ease, parrying his blow and neatly redirecting his momentum to the ground. Jim falls, hard, and he totally _knew_ it; this will be painful, muscle-straining punishment, but when has Jim not been a sucker for anything he has to work for? 

The _Suus Mahna_ is famous for being both intricately beautiful and deadly, and Jim doesn’t blink or doubt the fact as he eyeballs the relaxed posture of Spock’s arms in defensive positioning, the slenderness of his lanky belied by lean musculature Jim can see beneath the layering of his shirts. Spock is fast and strong and _trained_ , and Jim would be a fucking idiot to underestimate it, underestimate him. 

“See, that’s precisely what pisses me off. You don’t like me, fine. You don’t respect me, I’ll fucking deal. But we’re a goddamn command team and you can’t challenge me at every turn, undermine my command decisions in front of the rest of the crew—” Jim punctuates each point of emphasis with strikes directed at his First Officer’s torso. A lucky strike thumps hard against Spock’s abdomen; Jim is witness to the brief widening of eyes, the only hint of Spock’s emotions before Jim hastily darts back to avoid Spock’s forward heel strike. 

“That was never my intention,” Spock says stiffly, and Jim holds back a snort of derision, “I was merely attempting to advise you as per my function aboard this vessel—” His fist meets the flesh of Jim’s shoulder hard enough that the shock makes Jim’s entire arm go numb. A rough push of bodies and Jim’s elbow collides with Spock’s sternum, a back-handed swipe forcing Spock back and they step apart, circling, wary eyes upon the other, watching. 

“Bullshit.” Jim pronounces incredulously. There’s a barely-perceptible tell in the shift of the muscles of Spock’s chest, the barest of movements before he strikes. “You can’t be that oblivious on purpose. I’m a new Captain, Spock— the crew needs to learn to trust my decisions— to trust me, and you enjoy taking me apart like a Professor scolding a wayward schoolboy.”

“That is— Captain. Your conclusion is incorrect.” The barest of emotion from the Vulcan, a flinch as Jim’s left hook narrowly misses his face. 

“Yeah, well, that’s what it seems like.” Jim huffs, letting out a slight gasp of pain as Spock crowds his space and places him in a lock that traps his left arm against his back, close enough that he can feel the innate warmth of Spock’s body radiating off his frame. He pulls free with an improvised throw, slipping from Spock’s grasp. “You’d stare at me with horror every time you found me in some place you felt I shouldn’t be— like it was wrong for me to be there. You may disagree with my methods, but I intend to know my crew, whether you like it or not. Because it is a privilege to be their Captain. How can I not, when I hold their lives in my hands?” 

“I—” Spock says, but Jim isn’t done, not by a long shot. 

“It’s my goddamn responsibility, and if I’m going to be sending them on dangerous, life-threatening missions, if I have to send them to their deaths, I damn well better know their names. I wouldn’t even call it courtesy. It’s _necessary_.” Jim spits. 

“It is not my intention to—” 

“I came into this hoping we’d make a good command team. I even thought we could be friends— when the other you mentioned what they had, I’d hoped— fuck. Goddamn it.” Jim says, furious with himself, angry at his weakness. It’s enough that he finds a hole in Spock’s defenses and strikes, sending Spock tumbling to the floor. 

Spock stares at him, brown eyes wide and expressive like a human’s, and Jim flops gracelessly onto the mats next to him, panting and sweating and thoroughly out of breath. He swallows, anger and frustration abated. “I know I’m not everyone’s cup of tea. I’m probably so far out of left field for you, you can’t stand me. And I get that. Most Vulcans wouldn’t touch my business with a ten-foot pole. You’re an excellent First Officer and I’m willing to try to work through this, but if this was a mistake and you want out— I’d respect that. I’ll put in the request, and I swear there’ll be no hard feelings—” 

“Captain,” Spock interrupts, and Jim pauses. He can’t read Vulcans well, but he recognises the tension in the furrow of his brows. 

“No. I apologise, Captain, but your conclusion is incorrect.” Spock states. “I do not require a transfer.” 

“Really?” Jim says dumbly. 

A puff of air, and Jim wonders if that was a sigh. “I believe we have— misunderstood each other. I have no wish to subvert your command. Though your methods are unorthodox, you have performed admirably in your role and I have been remiss in my responsibilities if I have led you to think otherwise.” Spock tells him, unwavering honesty permeating his tone. “I wish to ‘start over’, as you would say.”

That changes things. It’s enough for the fledgeling beginnings of a smile, the first of today, to curve the corner of his lips. “Oh. Of course, Spock.” 

Jim stands, offering an outstretched hand to his First Officer, which Spock accepts. It feels staggeringly, irrevocably _right_ as Jim pulls him upright, the warmth of him standing at his side. This is what it was meant to be, Jim thinks, maybe he wasn’t wrong after all. 

“Why, Mister Spock, this just might be the start of a beautiful friendship,” Jim smirks, and is rewarded with the lift of his First Officer’s eyebrow, the corner of his mouth curving upward infinitesimally. It looks like the barest beginnings of a smile, and Jim may not be able to read most Vulcan expressions, but he’s pretty sure he’ll be able to figure it out, given time. 

* * *

“I never thanked you for taking the time to do this,” Kirk remarks, unfurling his curled body comfortably folded into one of Spock’s favourite armchairs. (It is illogical that he has a preference, and yet he does.) It is not an uncommon sight, given the amount of time they spend together, but the sight of his Captain loose and drowsy with relaxation brings to mind Earth’s domesticated feline— a cat, he remembers, an animal species his mother was fond of. 

The Captain is not an idle man, his being very rarely free of tension. Spock is now familiar with the efforts of an overactive, distracted mind constantly seeking inquiry and application, a drive to further himself in surprising and unconventional ways. He has witnessed the Captain climb the Jefferies tubes to aid engineers in repairing plasma conduits, prepare courses with the Chief of Security in basic hand-to-hand combat for enlisted crewmen, smile and laugh with the crew as one of them, expressing a depth of unparalleled compassion, intuition and understanding of his subordinates that Spock has rarely seen. 

He is not perfect, Spock knows. Spock has seen Kirk push headlong with impetuous decisions, bend rules with arrogance, struggle with the demons of self-hatred and paralysing self-doubt, wield the sharp edge of his anger and intellect with cutting precision with no thought or consequence to the possible fall-out. But Kirk is not a man unto himself— he is flawed, yet amenable to guidance, quick to apologise and just as quick to forgive. He has proven himself to be a singular, remarkable individual, and Spock is gratified to serve under him, to follow him through the darkness of space and into the brightness of brilliant, foreign stars. 

“To which activity are you referring, Captain?” Spock murmurs, as he shifts a pawn to take Kirk’s bishop.

“This— chess, sparring, arranging Paperwork Wednesdays. Getting to know one another. Don’t think for one moment I missed the fact you’ve taken more than your share of the administrative duties while annotating the documents you do send me.” Kirk’s smile is warm and guileless, a soft look Spock has only seen within the confines of his or Kirk’s quarters, different from the Captain’s brash confidence and broad smiles. A barrier of a different sort, Spock realises, not all emotional boundaries are made of distance and reticence. 

Spock is unclear on how to respond— on Vulcan, performing one’s role is considered expectation. “It is of no consequence, Captain. I am merely operating within my capacity as your First Officer.” 

“It’s Jim, Spock.” Kirk— no, Jim cajoles. The warmth in his gaze does not abate. Spock finds, illogically, that he has always held a fondness for its colour, almost a mirror to the shade worn by members of the Science team. 

“Jim.” Spock tries. 

“You’ll get the hang of it,” Kirk says kindly. “But really, thanks. I haven’t always been appreciative of your efforts, so I’m saying it now. I’m lucky to have you.”

A warmth flares in Spock’s chest, something he assesses and concludes not to be indigestion. It is a curious sensation, and Spock subsequently identifies it to be emotion. 

Perhaps a platitude would be appropriate. “It is my pleasure, Capt— Jim.” He says carefully, and is rewarded by the curve of Jim’s smile. Jim stretches, lithe and relaxed, and moves a rook unexpectedly into the oncoming path of Spock’s knight. 

“Checkmate in three.” He says nonchalantly, and as Spock peers curiously at the board— ah. Jim is correct, he has been outmanoeuvred. It is not entirely unexpected— he had long estimated the Captain’s skill at chess to be significantly higher than his actual FIDE rating.

“Re-match?” Jim asks, and Spock’s accedence is the gentle incline of his head and to set the chessboard once again. 

* * *

Leonard is screaming for Chapel the moment Jim’s bloodied body hits Sick Bay; he can’t summon enough energy to care about the pointy-eared hobgoblin standing stock-still, face blank at Jim’s side. Jim is crashing— Leonard trained as a trauma surgeon in Mayo, for all that he likes to play at being a humble Southern doctor, and Leonard knows the signs of class four haemorrhagic shock better than anyone on this goddamn tin can. 

The wound is bad: penetrating injury to lateral right torso, lung injury, likely liver laceration, possible kidney injury, need to rule out internal damage to abdominal aorta and branches. Jim is going to be worm food if this keeps up and Leonard needs to get him to the O.R. stat. 

Except even as Leonard’s barking orders at the med techs and nurses to get an IV in and transfer Jim to the O.R., the bloody Vulcan’s attached himself to Jim with his weird Vulcan voodoo and fuck that, Leonard is done with this bullshit. 

He’s half-about to punch the damn Vulcan’s lights out when M’Benga stops him, a hand pressing down Leonard’s tightly clenched fist. “Don’t,” Geoffrey says, face pale, tone even. “I think Spock is stabilising him.”

Leonard takes a brief second to look at the numbers — still horrible, but similar to before. He pulls back his hand roughly. Jim still needs surgery, and the green-blooded bastard can’t stitch him together with the power of good thoughts and wishful thinking. 

“I don’t care what you do — keep him the fuck away from my sterile field, you hear me?” Leonard hisses at M’Benga.

“Come on, Jim,” Leonard whispers as they hit the O.R., one last touch to his best friend’s arm before he pulls away to scrub up. “Pull through, you stubborn son of a bitch. Just so that I can strangle you with my bare hands.” 

* * *

A storm is coming. Nyota feels the sense of unease under her skin, beneath her fingernails, in the pit of her stomach, an itch she cannot scratch. 

She doesn’t voice her suspicions to anyone. It would be the height of irrationality, given that they are in the midst of trade negotiations with the Catullans. A hierarchical warp-capable species, the Catullans resemble humanoid foxes and are polite, courteous and hospitable, with a strong sense of pride and personal honour and an aversion to skin contact. Perhaps it is for this reason that Nyota feels the mission is a veritable disaster waiting to happen— Captain Kirk is infamous for being, for the lack of a better word, touchy-feely, and the scathing briefing she gives him before they beam down to the planet espouses the single most important rule of Not Touching Anyone Ever. 

Kirk takes her lecture with good humour and patient understanding, cocking his head and smiling a self-deprecating grin that she’s never seen before. He looks younger than his twenty-five years when he promises to behave. His dress uniform fits like a particularly lustful glove, and distantly she thinks what a beautiful man he is. Thankfully, Nyota comes to her senses and chases him away to mingle with the diplomats. 

God, Nyota would never forgive herself if she ended up caught in the gravitational pull of Jim Kirk. 

Surprisingly, the world doesn’t end, and there are thirty minutes left to the end of their reception when Nyota excuses herself from her discussion with the Catullan Minister of Commerce on Federation trade practices, citing a minor ailment. The disquietude does not abate, and Nyota pulls out her PADD to look at the formal transcripts of the week-long trade conference. 

“By the pricking of my thumbs, something wicked this way comes,” she murmurs, mostly to herself. 

“Didn’t peg you for a Shakespeare fan.” Someone sidles up next to her, pushing a drink into her hand. She meets amused blue eyes before she smells the bitter, fruity scent of _l’dak_ liquor distinctive to the drink. "Macbeth, Act 4, scene 1. I'm more of a Comedies man myself." The Captain looks insufferably pleased with himself and Nyota itches to wipe that smug grin off his face. 

“Didn’t I tell you to talk to Ambassador Sherarul?” She frowns at him.

“You did, but the good Ambassador is otherwise engaged in a spirited discussion about crop harvests with your better half.” Kirk runs a hand through already tousled hair, furthering the intimate image of a casual lover with bedhead. “It was such good scintillating stuff I didn’t want to intrude.” 

“Coward,” Nyota mutters, and doesn’t bother hiding the scorn from her tone. 

“Ah, Uhura, this is why I like you best. No ‘yes, sir’s, ‘no sir’s, ‘may I kiss your ass, sir’. The unadulterated contempt is refreshing.” His blue eyes flash with humour. 

“What you like best is the way my ass looks in this skirt, don’t think I didn’t catch you staring.” Nyota retorts, not at all fazed by Kirk’s lack of professionalism. 

“Well, it’s a beautiful sight— I won’t deny that, but you’re selling yourself short if you think that’s your best feature.” His tone changes almost instantaneously, from light teasing to seriousness. “What do you make of this?”

“This, Captain?” She asks. 

“The Catullans, Sherarul, their crop harvests. What’s your professional assessment on the progress of our trade discussions, Lieutenant,” he asks, and Nyota hears the firmness, the gentle command in his voice. 

It’s enough to make her stand straighter as she references the reports in her PADD. “It’s a delicate situation. Computational analysis has shown their crops are likely to fail in the next eight to nine months unless the Federation intervenes. The soil has been overworked for centuries— they need soil regenerators and nutrient supplementation. I’ve also found disturbing reports of small pockets of crop disease, a parasitic fungus resistant to all the pesticides used by their farmers so far. I’ve asked Spock to obtain a sample from their Chief Scientist, but anecdotally, it’s eerily similar to the reports of the disease found on—”

“Tarsus IV.” Kirk states. His hand fingers what looks suspiciously like an energy bar, a peculiarity given that the Catullans have prepared a feast in their honour. 

“Yes.” She cocks her head, curious. “I didn’t peg you to be familiar with crop epidemics of the twenty-third century.” 

“There’s a lot you don’t know about me, Uhura.” Kirk says smoothly, slipping the energy bar back into his dress uniform pocket. There’s enough bite in the statement that Nyota resists the urge to flinch. She carries on, undeterred. 

“We could get them all the things they need, including the cure for the fungus which the Federation has known for more than a decade. The problem therein lies in their resistance to external support. The Catullans are a species with a strong cultural-bound emphasis on pride and self-sufficiency. If you look at the language they’ve utilised in our trade discussions, it’s always polite but prevaricating. They’re saying yes, thank you, maybe later, at your convenience, but really, what they’re saying is no way in hell.”

“Reasoning?” Kirk asks thoughtfully. 

“Fifty years ago, a contact-transmittable illness spread like wildfire and decimated half the planet. No help was rendered by neighbouring warp-capable species or the Federation. Since then, the Catullans have prized self-sufficiency above all else as one of their principal governing tenets. They won’t accept any help, given freely or otherwise. Not to mention they now view all physical contact as deplorable and reckless endangerment of their species’ survival.” 

“That sounds like a sad state of affairs for all,” Kirk leers. God, Nyota still can’t stand him, even if he is pretty to look at. 

“There might be a workaround that still respects their cultural beliefs, though I haven’t figured the most ideal application. They have issues with trade and goods given freely, but they don’t have a problem with penalties incurred for offences. Ambassador Sherarul took his time to explain that the concept of _fuut’vnal_ to me— it translates loosely to offence recompense. A strict punishment for offending their cultural norms, if you will. It has ranged from public stoning or whipping to ridiculously exorbitant payments, though the Catullans tend to prefer the former to the latter.” 

“Shit, remind me never to piss off a Catullan.” Kirk hisses in sympathy, and Nyota does not disagree. 

“It usually correlates to the degree of the insult and the value to which the injured party gives the compensation. For example, thieves are stoned with the bricks used to build the dwellings of the accusers. Liars are chained in the city square for a week for all to see. Fornicators are whipped from shoulder to groin until their genitals are bloodied mush. Touching has a minimum sentence of fifteen lashes of the whip. Sometimes they sever the tendons of fingers to ensure the offenders can never touch anything again. A poetic eye for an eye, almost.” 

“How very Old Testament of them.” Kirk murmurs.

“It’s just on the wrong side of nasty that we can’t overstep that boundary. It’s frustrating enough knowing just how badly they need our help, but we can’t do anything about it. Spock has fielded at least a dozen questions about the bioengineering requirements for the fungus cure and their Chief Scientist keeps sending Sherarul shooting looks of desperation every time crop yields comes up in conversation—” Nyota turns to face Kirk, only to see the focused intelligence in blue eyes, wide with humour and _knowing_ as he discreetly places a hypo against his neck and depresses the plunger.

“You knew all this already,” she accuses. 

“Needed to see if you’d come to the same awesome conclusion I did. It’ll help justify my decision-making to Starfleet Command after I do this.” Kirk mutters cheerfully before throwing the entirety of his drink back. “Try to leave out the words ‘batshit crazy’ and ‘certifiably insane’ from the formal report, will you? It just makes you guys look deranged by association, given that you all actually listen to me. Fuck, I hate hypos, remind me never to do something like this again.” 

“Wait, Kirk— what? Captain! Come back here!” Nyota whisper-shrieks, but it’s too late when the Captain is a sneaky asshole and all Nyota can do is scream at his rapidly disappearing back. She stares in wordless horror as he approaches the conversing pair of Spock and the Ambassador unsteadily, swaying gently like a palm frond in the wind. 

If there’s one thing James Kirk does well, it’s playing to his faults in front of an audience. He is convincing when pretending to be hopelessly, indubitably drunk while palming a new glass of _l’dak_ liquor, gracelessly inserting himself into the conversation, gesticulating wildly with pressured speech, the strength and forcefulness of his statements drawing attention from nearby guests. 

“So, you know, the Federation has some experience handling species that are touch-adverse. Look at my friend here, Mister Spock— hey buddy! Don’t touch the Vulcans, they taught me in the Academy, but if you look at this softie, he’s warmed to the good ol’ Kirk charms.” Kirk says, smiling and slurring the ends of his words.

“Captain, you are inebriated.” Spock asserts, the faint hint of chiding pointedly ignored by Kirk, who barrels on. 

Shit— she can’t do anything, neither of them will be able to stop this oncoming train-wreck. Jim Kirk is a ticking time bomb ready to go off, and Nyota can’t reign him in without causing a diplomatic incident and staging mutiny.

“Did he tell you he strangled me when we first met? He doesn’t like to talk about it, I swear he’s almost Catholic with his pent-up guilt, but it’s all water under the bridge now. Now, we’re the best of friends—” Kirk places a hand on Spock’s shoulder, his thumb glancing off the prominence of Spock’s collarbone, and the silence that ensues leaves Nyota with a tightness in her chest, her hands tightly clenched as she presses them against her thighs. She’s walking, almost running, but she can’t— she won’t reach in time— 

The Ambassador hisses softly, hackles rising as his four nostrils flare. Spock looks at Kirk, eyes narrowed, and _doesn’t say a goddamn thing_ as Kirk reaches forward and places a hand in the Ambassador’s tan fur. “Huh,” he says quizzically. “Soft.”

In a burst of motion, the Ambassador shifts a few dozen feet away and approximately fifty laser weapons are leveled at Kirk’s forehead. 

Oh, fuck. 

“ _Fuut’vnal—_ your actions disrespect our ways, outsider. I demand recompense.” The Ambassador snarls, revealing a row of razor-sharp canines, the colour of his fur transformed to the black of midnight. It’s enough to give Nyota the strength to push through the last few meters to stand in front of Kirk, his back to him as she raises her hands in the universal gesture of peace and surrender. 

“On behalf of the Federation and the starship _Enterprise_ , I apologise for my Captain, honoured Ambassador. He is not himself, I believe the _l’dak_ liquor has influenced him significantly. He means no disrespect, I can attest to his sincerity.” Nyota says in formal Catullya, tilting her head and exposing the vulnerability of her neck in traditional Catullan deference. “We beg for forgiveness and leniency.” 

“I apologise,” Kirk says in passable, surprising Catullya , his gesture mirroring hers. “I will willingly pay the _fuut’vnal_ for my offence, honoured Ambassador.”

Fucking Kirk. She should tape his mouth shut or ban him from delegations entirely. She shoots him a filthy glare, wordlessly commanding him to stay silent. “Please excuse the Captain. He is still considerably intoxicated. Again, we beg your indulgence and forbearance.” 

“No, Lieutenant Uhura. Captain Kirk has agreed to pay the _fuut’vnal_ and we will proceed. For the flagrant abuse of touch, I would be well within my rights to flay the skin off his fingers and no Catullan would give pause.” Ambassador Sherarul states coldly. “However, you are not one of us, and I take your strangeness and foreign nature into consideration in the pronouncement.” 

The room collectively holds their breath, though Kirk’s gaze is clear and even despite the psychoactive influence of ethanol. 

“Captain James Tiberius Kirk, there are two offences in your name— you have come into physical contact with your subordinate and placed the foulness of your touch upon my person. You will thus pay two penalties,” the Ambassador announces. “I will first demand the traditional penalty of fifteen lashes of the _pyt’laeh_ as punishment for your contact with your subordinate. Will you pay it?”

“Yes,” Kirk says. His warning look, sharp and pointed in her direction, stops Nyota from interceding. 

“My second demand, for the perversion of physical contact upon an Ambassador, will task your Federation with the provision of providing soil restoratives and the cure for the parasitic fungus that plagues our planet as punishment. I ask again, will you pay the penalty?” Sherarul says, and it’s enough to make the pit in her stomach drop abruptly.

“Yes,” Kirk says simply. 

He’s done it. Kirk has manoeuvred the Catullans to receive the Federation’s help on terms they can accept— at great cost to himself— but he’s done it. Nyota stifles the sound of hysterical laughter that threatens to bubble from her lips. 

Crazy bastard. 

* * *

The Catullans force Kirk to disrobe in the dining hall. It is a display— a perverse performance with an audience and Kirk is the star centre stage. Spock sends all officers but Nyota and himself back to the ship with instructions to keep Medical on standby, but the room is still packed with several hundred Catullan diplomats and ministers, all watching with beady, anticipatory eyes. 

What it is is a power play, but Kirk, to his benefit, does not appear unnerved, calmly pulling both uniform tunics before striding onto the raised platform. Nyota has seen Kirk unclothed only once— though granted, she had been too busy being annoyed to fully evaluate the state of his musculature.

Where Spock is lean, corded muscle, Kirk is bulkier with broader shoulders, his toned physique kissed golden by the sun, a stark oddity given the universality of artificial light aboard a Federation vessel. Numerous scars dot the length of his trunk, spine and forearms, likely a memento of his dissolute youth spent participating in bar brawls, Nyota thinks uncharitably, until she catches sight of several discoloured blemishes running the expanse of his back ending in semicircular oblong rings. 

Nyota turns to Spock, horrified, though his only response is to incline his head slightly. 

“The Captain did not have a happy childhood,” he says simply, and it’s enough to make Nyota regret her initial moments of unconscious cruelty. 

The Captain kneels, back ramrod straight, chin raised in unmistakable challenge as the _pyt’laeh_ , or braided cord whip, is drawn across his shoulders to kiss the tender flesh of his back.

“One.” The _pyt’laeh_ strikes, and the stifled sound that exits Kirk’s mouth sounds very much like a wounded animal. He does not flinch, even as a linear gaping slash opens on his back. 

“Two.” Kirk is as stone, face pale, a spot of red at his cheeks and the pale rose of his lips the only colour on his face. 

“Three.” Nyota can no longer watch, closing her eyes at the tell-tale sound of the lash. 

“Four.” Strike.

“Five.” Strike. 

“Six.” Strike.

“Seven.” Strike.

“Eight.” Strike. 

“Nine.” The Captain sways, pale, his back a mess of weeping red wounds. 

“Ten.” Spock is silent as he watches the Captain’s flesh yield; Nyota knows better, the impassivity of the Vulcan’s expression belied by the curve of tension between his brows, the tight, rigid curl of his mouth. 

“Eleven.” Strike. 

Spock shifts abruptly, projecting six feet of agitated Vulcan with every fibre of his being. “I cannot stand by and watch this any further — it is insupportable.” 

“We can’t intervene, Spock. The Catullans are relentless— if you interrupt them now, they’ll just start from zero again.” Nyota blocks his path, her voice steady despite the tremor in her frame. She doesn’t look at Kirk. 

“I will not condone or willingly participate in the public whipping of a Starfleet Captain.” Spock seethes.

“We can’t,” Nyota says, resigned. Tears leak from beneath her lids, unbidden. 

“Twelve.” Strike. 

“I am your commanding officer and I insist that this ends now.” Nyota has not seen Spock so furious, not since— Vulcan, the incident on the bridge. Always Kirk, infuriating, challenging, reckless Kirk, pushing Spock to the limits of his control. 

“No.” The Captain says hoarsely, as they both turn to the raised platform. “Thank you, Commander, but stand down.” 

“Captain—” Spock interjects, tone agonised. 

“Stand down, Spock. We’re finishing this.” Jim grits his teeth and moans as the thirteenth lash comes. “I don’t let people starve.” 

Spock doesn’t reply, the angry line of his mouth frank protest to the unfolding situation. 

“Fourteen.” Strike.

“Fifteen.” 

Kirk sags to the floor, his back a latticework of bleeding stripes. In brief seconds, Spock is kneeling at his side. “Captain,” Spock says, softly, ever so gently, meeting Kirk’s dazed blue eyes. He does not touch Kirk, his hands stopping bare inches from Kirk’s skin. 

“The _fuut’vnal_ is satisfied,” Sherarul states, quiet enough that only Nyota is privy to his words, his fur an even russet brown. “Your Captain is heavy-handed with his schemes, but he has accorded himself with pride by the measure of my people. He will be remembered for his sacrifice.” 

“Thank you for your words, Ambassador,” Nyota can only say numbly. “Please allow us to take our leave of you so we may seek medical assistance.” 

“Goodbye, Lieutenant Uhura,” The Ambassador says, but Nyota’s moved past him even before he’s finished speaking to reach the raised platform. There are enough stragglers that Nyota doesn’t dare to pull Kirk upright. She doubts he can stand: his complexion is tinged grey, cool sweat pooling at his temples a stark contrast to his pallor.

“Hurts more than I remember,” Kirk rasps, making no effort to extricate himself from the floor. “I didn’t scream, right? Did better than the last time, didn’t wet myself in sheer fucking terror—” 

“You’re a suicidal idiot,” Nyota informs him tightly. 

“That’s Captain Idiot, sir, to you.” Jim quips faintly. “Nothing ventured, nothing gained, Uhura— we needed them to take the aid, remember? This was the only way, and the way I see it, go hard or go home— hey! No touching, remember?” He pulls out of Spock’s reach just before the Vulcan grasps his shoulder. 

“I no longer place any importance on Catullan social customs,” Spock grits, voice stony, and boy, is Spock pissed. Nyota doesn’t envy Jim at all in this moment. 

“Yeah well, bully for you, because I do. You can’t touch me— I’ll walk on my own power, or I don’t walk at all.” Kirk insists.

“That can be arranged,” Spock mutters, even as the Captain raises both eyebrows in a pitiful facsimile of his First Officer’s usual expression. “Doctor McCoy will be distressed to find you in such a physical state.”

“Hey, I was good, I even took the antibiotic prophylaxis hypo like a good little Starfleet Captain,” Kirk whines. 

“You have also recklessly exposed yourself to a multitude of foreign allergens and microbials which now have a direct route past the protective skin barrier into your bloodstream.”

Kirk rolls his eyes. “Come off it, Spock— this is a win and you’re being more fatalistic than Bones.” 

“Could I have any other response, given that I am not unaffected by that illogical display of foolhardy behaviour?” Spock says harshly. 

And Nyota’s had it with the both of them. “Are the both of you quite done?” 

It’s clear from the way they both stare at her that they’ve forgotten she’s even there. God. They’ll drive her insane if she lets them. “Get up, Kirk. We can’t teleport out from this room.” She heaves a sigh of relief as Kirk succeeds in pulling himself up from the floor unaided. The satisfaction is fleeting— Nyota doesn’t miss the tremor in his shoulders, nor the way grips the sides of his knees, seeking balance and finding no purchase. His steps are ginger, but his legs hold, _thank you, god._

They have half of the corridor to cross before reaching the unshielded courtyard when Kirk speaks. “I dream of Tarsus sometimes,” Kirk says, almost casually as they walk slowly to the teleportation zone. “It’s left me with an unfortunate inability to ignore pointless death from starvation.” 

And oh, Nyota should have known, as she rocks back in surprise, she should have guessed, from his pointed comments about fungal epidemics, his peculiar quirks with food and the myriad of scars on his back. He would have been just the right age to be— 

Spock’s gaze is devoid of surprise as he says, “I may disagree with your methods, Captain, but I have always known you to be an individual capable of great personal sacrifice to serve the needs of others which you place above your own.” 

As they dematerialise from the planet’s surface, Nyota looks between her Captain and her First Officer and realises they might not be so dissimilar after all. 

* * *

Jim’s no stranger to death. He’s been on the precipice more times than he can count, jumped off that ledge once and lived to tell the tale. 

Right now, dying feels kind of floaty, a bit like dreaming if Jim’s being particularly facetious.

Jim’s tired. He’s made it to just about the end of his five-year mission, and perhaps that’s enough. Jim’s okay with that— he’s had a good run. The only big negative with going out in a blaze of glory would be the associations with his father, which granted, he’d be too dead to have to get through in the first place. 

Sometimes it’s the dying that’s simple; it’s the living bit that’s assiduously hard. 

He’ll miss his crew. They’re a good bunch, but he knows Spock will take good care of them. Good old Spock. Loyal, steady Spock. He’ll miss Spock most of all. 

_Jim, t’hy’la._ And hey, he’s never heard Spock’s voice in his head before, that’s a new one. _Stay._

 _Hurts. Tired,_ Jim replies. 

_T’hy’la,_ the Spock in his head pleads. _Stay. Live._

Jim was never one to refuse Spock anything. 

* * *

It is during their sixth away mission that the _Enterprise_ crew suffers their first critical injury. 

Ensign Raenik falls twenty meters down a crumbling ravine during a mission led by the Captain himself, but even the thick protective scaling of Saurian hide is unable to prevent massive internal injury. By the time the away team is able to extricate him to safety, Raenik is a broken structure of haemorrhaging blood and bone fragments, and it is clear from the ashen look on their Chief Medical Officer’s face that his chances of survival are slim to middling. 

Spock understands the parameters of what demarcates mission failure. _Kaiidth_ , it is what it is— he is not afraid of giving this misadventure a name. Spock is present when they beam down to LV-546 with the Captain and the away party— as First Officer, it is his responsibility to select members of away parties from a rotating duty roster. Ensign Raenik, Junior Science Officer, has an academic focus in geomorphology and is the logical choice. Surface scans do not reveal any evidence of weakness in the structural integrity of the canyon, and Spock does not think twice to question the surveillance data. 

It is easy to be lulled into a false sense of security by the beautiful serenity of wilderness here: sheer cliffs of crystalline rock emerge from a single landmass to shatter the illusion of endless expanse of aquamarine sky and boundless sea. Vulcans are not immune to beauty— the original surveyors of LV-546 name the landmass _Mathulek_ , or platter, just as the canyon range becomes _Nufaya_ , the Vulcan word for offering, uncharacteristic Vulcan poeticism at the notion of oblations made for the meeting of sea and sky. 

Spock beams down without adequate wariness for the unexpected— he is shamefully preoccupied with excitement at the prospect of a new crystalloid that bears curious structural similarity to dilithium crystals, a discovery that may yield much in the name of scientific advancement. 

He is only distantly aware of the Ensign standing a short distance from him on the canyon’s periphery extricating samples, he is too late when Kirk shouts in alarm mere seconds before the rock face crumbles with the Ensign along with it. For several seconds, Spock’s hand reaches for empty space, grasping for familiar brown eyes always filled with love and patience, this time filled with fear, hears his mouth cry for her as she tumbles out of reach. A rough grasp at his forearm, not at all gentle, drags him to the safer ground, and Spock is returned to reality— it is Ensign Raenik who falls; Amanda Grayson is dead. 

The feel of hot breath against his neck; a colourful stream of invective in Andorii, a language he does not expect the Captain to know. Kirk pushes away gently and relinquishes the punishing grip on his arm, all softness in his easy demeanour gone as he peers over the treacherous cliff, looking for any sign of their downed crewmate. He does not look at Spock as he speaks terse commands to traverse the safest route down the ravine, he does not meet Spock’s gaze even as they beam back to the Enterprise with their injured crew member between them. 

There is little point in acknowledging the small but not insignificant statistical increase in mortality rate among officers who participate in away missions. As they wait outside the Operating Theatre of the Sick Bay, the Captain begins to pace the length of the corridor, sleepless and untamed, penning down platitudes for a condolence letter he is not prepared to send. 

Spock’s eidetic memory allows him to recall the Ensign’s academic transcript and the character references he used to gain placement onboard the Enterprise. Ensign Raenik is but twenty two years past his nest day, a mere hatchling in the vast expanse of Saurian life expectancy. Raenik enjoyed swimming and music in his free time. He is survived by six litter-mates, three brothers, two sisters, a mother, a father. 

“Don’t say it,” Kirk says abruptly, fists clenched white against his sides, his PADD abandoned on the edge of his seat. _Do not say it’s not my fault_ , Kirk does not say, but Spock knows the words he means. 

Spock will not speak words that will absolve him of his guilt. The fine line between blame and responsibility is apparent to him, even if the edges are blurred to the Captain. In Kirk’s eyes, the well-being of his crew is sacrosanct, and Spock will stand with him and shoulder its burden, lend strength when his resolve falters and he is weak. Spock’s roles and responsibilities have always been clear— to serve at the pleasure and ensure the Captain does not fall. And so Spock does not tell Kirk it is not his fault, silently taking the discarded PADD and amending the letter to Ensign Raenik’s family to include his name. 

Spock is aware of Kirk’s troubled past, the brittle foundations of his life leading to a tendency to turn to violence as an outlet for emotional release— an ill-suited coping mechanism for a prominent Starfleet Captain. There are little barriers strong enough to resist the force of an onrushing deluge, simply easier to redirect and channel the flow to something functional, productive. Spock has long since proposed alternatives since making his observations, offering Kirk an opponent he may spar with who will not break, an opponent in a seated battle of wit and carefully calculated war that will stimulate his mind beyond the release of endorphins a fist hitting flesh provides. It is an opportunity to be felled, to let the barriers of the chain of command be stripped away, to simply be Kirk and Spock for the briefest of moments, aboard a vessel where they are in perpetuity commanding officer and second in command. 

In the waiting area of the Sick Bay, Spock opens the chess application on his PADD, allows the brief glance of his hands against Kirk’s as he passes the PADD to his Captain. His response is a light grip on Spock’s clothed forearm, and Spock does not need skin contact to understand gratitude. 

* * *

Ensign Raenik lives. 

The doctors give him an eighty-six percent chance of full functional recovery in six months— an optimistic statistic given that he has broken nearly every bone in his body and lived to tell the tale. Saurians in general are a positive-minded bunch, and Raenik does not dwell on what humans call ‘the glass half-empty’. He is alive, he may yet regain the full function of his limbs in time. He has faith he will once again swim the fiery lakes of Mount Lidreako, breathe the swampy methane-filled fumes of his nest home. 

It is remarkably easy though, to forget his home is light years away when crew members stream in to visit during all hours, bringing the nourishing gift of laughter and good-natured teasing Raenik has come to associate with the people he has begun to call his friends. He is not spared a visit from his senior officers— the Captain makes an appearance with a small snifter of alcoholic beverage on the night Raenik is discharged to his quarters, the curve of his grin infectious and filled with wicked mischief. “I won’t tell if you won’t,” and the smell of home, smoky, sulphurous, extremely illegal— wafts from the glass. 

That night, they nearly finish the Captain’s illicit supply of Saurian brandy, and Raenik ponders the depth of the bonds he has formed in the deep of space. He is the only Saurian aboard the starship _Enterprise_ , and yet he is far from alone, from being lonely. There are people, like Ensign Hannity and Ensign Chekov, who were quick to extend their hand in friendship, supervisors like Commander Spock, strict and meticulous but always fair, who shouldered the responsibility of his time-sensitive experiments in his absence. 

He thinks of the Captain, who braved the environmental perils of scaling the twenty-meter drop to his fallen crew member against the recommendations of the security team, all for the purpose of bringing his body home. The Captain, who took the effort to video call his brood-mother informing her of his accident, eyes honest as he admitted the incident to be a culpability of his command, his tone a resolution as he promised to never let this happen again to another. As he looks upon his Captain, it is not hard to believe that this man would do everything in his power to keep his promise, to keep his crew from harm. 

For all these reasons, when Ensign Raenik is offered the option of completing his rehabilitation on a Starbase in the same sector as Sauria, he chooses instead to complete his physical therapy onboard the Enterprise, refusing the unspoken transfer for the realm of the unknown.

The _Enterprise_ is not Sauria, but it may well become a home. 

* * *

In the event of incapacitation of the Captain and First Officer, Starfleet protocols dictate command of the ship falls to the next highest-ranking crew member, regardless of position in the command structure. Aboard the _Enterprise_ , that would be Lieutenant Commander (Dr.) Leonard McCoy and Lieutenant Commander Montgomery Scott, both heads of their departments respectively, both effusively and unreservedly dead set against the idea of command, however temporary.

Yeah, that’s exactly how Hikaru finds himself sitting in the Captain’s chair after the debacle of Beta Aurigae III, fingers massaging the arch of his nose bridge as he ponders the circumstances before him. Hikaru’s grandfather, a man of few words and colourful vocabulary, would call it a massive fucking shitshow, and Hikaru is inclined to agree. 

The pool of Jim’s blood in the transporter room is still giving him nightmares, and Hikaru aches to check in on Sick Bay, but he can’t, at least, not yet. The senior officers’ debrief is in five minutes and Hikaru efficiently transfers the conn to Lieutenant Waverly, taking brisk strides to reach the meeting room with seconds to spare. 

This— running officers’ meetings, consolidating and coordinating resources, writing reports and giving orders is nothing new to him. Hikaru has sat in the chair eighteen times in the last five years as Acting Captain— Jim’s always promised he’ll be the Captain of his own starship one day, and he’s received enough on the job training to make it count. It’s the sight of Uhura, Hendorff, M’Benga and Scotty trailing in, eyes tight and tense with worry, which scares him more than the weight and burden of leadership placed upon his shoulders. 

“Science isn’t coming,” Hendorff says abruptly as he settles into a chair. “They’re still working on the analysis of the Sondarian’s pressure-release traps, but they’ve asked me to convey that provisionally there’s no evidence of a biotoxin or poison.” 

“Teleporters have been cleared as well— Chen from Microbiology and I have gone over the scans with a fine-toothed comb: no pathogens. With your say-so, sir, we’ll lift the quarantine orders.” M’Benga chimes. 

“Do it,” Hikaru says. “Any news from Surgery?”

“Leonard’s still working on him. Christine says another two hours, maybe. It was touch-and-go for a while, but he’s classified critical but stable,” M’Benga says. 

“And Spock?” Uhura asks. It’s what they’ve all been thinking anyway.

“Still with the Captain. The meld is deep— he’s still not responding to stimuli,” M’Benga says, the furrows in his forehead deepening. “I’ve checked the literature and spoken to some of my colleagues working on New Vulcan; extended mind-melds are very rare. There have been case reports of mind-melds being used to stabilise patients who were critically ill, but never on non-Vulcans, and only between family units or bonded pairs.” 

Hm. Interesting. “Okay. It’s a unique situation. We’ll put a pin on that.” Hikaru frowns. “Giotto alright?” 

“He’s fine. Some allergen in the air on Beta Aurigae III triggered a hypersensitivity response. He’s off-duty for the next three days.”

“Alright. Goes without saying, Hendorff, you’re in charge of Security until Giotto’s back.” Hikaru says, and watches as Hendorff nods, the unease lifting slightly from his expression. 

“Aye, sir.”

“Uhura— any news from Starfleet Command?”

“They’ve been made aware of the situation. Give me a few days to work my magic— whoever prepared those data packets is going to be wishing they didn’t.” Uhura says with a terrifying glint in her eye, and hoo boy, Hikaru’s glad he’s isn’t on the receiving end of that one. 

“Let me know the minute they do. Any change in our orders from up top?” Hikaru asks instead. 

“Current orders hold for now. We’re a month out from Earth even at warp eight, and our current path puts us on route to Starbase 16, where we can requisition supplies and medical support.”

That’s doable. “Mister Scott?” 

“Aye, Mister Sulu. The ship can take it— the dilithium crystals were refreshed six months ago. Gettin’ to Starbase 16 should’ae take longer than five days at maximum warp,” Scott replies. 

“Okay then. I’ll call up to Helm and let them know.” Hikaru says. “Any other considerations I need to know about?”

The paucity of reply is long enough that Hikaru looks up into the exhausted faces of the crew, the tangible undercurrent of worry and fear that hangs between them. 

It is difficult not to find commonalities between now and the flood of grief and hopelessness that spread throughout the ship after the events with Khan, its crew young and brash and utterly unfamiliar with the high cost of victory. They’ve all grown up since then: older, steadier, somber with the reality of exploring undiscovered country. Risk has always been an unpleasant but unavoidable quality of away missions— space is beauty and mystique wrapped in the innate wonder of discovery, but one would be wise not to forget the inherent treachery of traversing an unfamiliar capricious sea. 

“I know today was tough on all of us. Jim is our Captain, but first and foremost our friend. Jim’s faith in the _Enterprise_ and its crew has always been unmatched— the ship is state-of-the-art, but its crew have always been the strength and lifeblood of this vessel, filled with courage and tenacity in the face of adversity. Please thank your department members for their hard work and continued dedication. We won’t let James T. Kirk slip through our fingers so easily.” Hikaru says quietly and firmly, as Scotty reaches over to grip his shoulder in silent thanks. 

It’s the right thing to say. Hikaru knows without a doubt that Jim would be pleased. 

* * *

“Do you dream?” The Captain asks as a side note to their meandering discussion on Vulcan meditation rituals, his tone rampant with curiosity, fingers steepled and curved as he ponders his next chess move. 

Spock does not flinch, but his pause cannot be taken as anything other than surprise. 

Months of discourse has lent Spock familiarity with the Captain’s habits in conversation. Their discussions during their weekly chess games frequently traverse a wide spectrum of topics, many of them thought-provoking and challenging to the axiomatic theories Spock has always believed to be true. This, however— a personal line of inquiry, is new. 

It is a well-known fact regarding Vulcan physiology, and Spock does not bristle as he hears the question now. 

“Vulcans do not dream,” Spock says, tamping down the instinctual response to respond emotionally. 

“But you do,” Kirk guesses, the crooked edge of his smile a counterpoint to the sharp intelligence in his eyes. 

Spock has seen much evidence of the Captain’s insightful nature, applied to great effect with his interactions of his crew. To have that piercing accuracy directed at him, pinpointing a feature of his unique genetics he has never shared — Spock would do well not to let his discomfiture show. 

Spock does not respond further to this line of query, choosing to depart to the safer climes of ideal characteristics of meditation techniques. The conversation ebbs and flows from there, but Spock does not forget the pointed clarity in his Captain’s gaze, entirely too perceptive for a human. 

* * *

And of course, Nibiru and what follows is an entire fucking shitshow. 

Hikaru spends the entirety of the Nibiru mission shrieking about piloting a shuttle into a goddamn volcano, because of course the Captain would encourage that shit. Hikaru’s all for so-insane-it’s-practically-genius plans, but this really takes the fucking cake. Any pilot worth their salt can tell you plasma coils melt in the face of thousand-degree centigrade temperatures, but well, leave it to the Enterprise to test it with _practical application_. 

Jesus, the entire crew is batshit crazy, Kirk does a little creative problem-solving to get Spock out of the volcano before he ends up doing the backstroke in fucking lava and nobody dies, thank _fuck_. That’s Kirk for you— crazy asshole pushing the boundaries and breaking rules, but he breaks the rules for _you_. 

After that and the base-jumping incident of Vulcan, it’s a little hard not to be a fan of Jim Kirk— the Captain is flat-out insane, but in a good way that reeks of genius and untapped potential, a razor-sharp tool in the midst of garden-variety brilliance. Applied single-mindedly to Starfleet’s lofty goals of exploration and diplomacy, Kirk is a finely-tuned instrument given purpose, subverting expectations and skirting the confines of predictability with infamous success. 

It’s evident though that Mister Spock isn’t a fan of Kirk’s methods. When Hikaru finds out that Kirk loses the Enterprise for saving his First Officer’s life, he’s ready to kick Spock’s ass to New Vulcan and back, XO or not. Hikaru understands loyalty, even if the Vulcan doesn’t, and he knows most of the crew of the Enterprise feel the same.

Hikaru never gets to launch a formal protest because Starfleet HQ gets shot to hell and Kirk gets reinstated as Captain before Hikaru can write a thinly-veiled fuck you addressed to the Admiralty. Things have changed, though— Kirk is changed, tension and fury bleeding into his person, the easy-going, even-tempered persona gone from view. Frustration, grief and loss hang like shadows in Kirk’s expression and oh, Kirk was mentored by Pike, wasn’t he? 

It doesn’t help that Kirk reinstates Spock as his First Officer, and even though they’ve supposedly made up, it’s like a redux of the early days where every moment bled tension on the bridge— Mommy and Daddy are fighting, and nobody wants to be stuck in the middle of that custody battle. 

Shit hits the fan, hard, and John Harrison is one lying, traitorous sonovabitch, and shit shit shit, things are exploding, they’re hurtling to earth and they’re all going to die in a fiery ball of plummeting steel, only they don’t, and it’s a goddamn miracle. 

“There are no such things,” Spock says, face turning pale and eyes wide with the realisation, taking off like a bat out of hell without transferring the conn to Hikaru, and that’s when shit really hits the fucking fan. Kirk _dies_ — a noble, self-sacrificial death that drops the pit of Hikaru’s stomach and fills it with lead, chokes his throat with grief. 

McCoy spouts some crazy words about Khan being able to save Kirk, and even after Spock goes a little batshit, achieving the impossible and dragging Khan back to the ship alive, nobody really knows what that means after Khan and Kirk’s corpse are spirited away into the top-secret depths of Starfleet Medical. Hikaru hears the whispers though. There’s talk of honest-to-god resurrection, but Hikaru doesn’t put too much stock into that. That’s just crazy. 

When not two weeks later, Kirk rises from the dead like fucking Lazarus, Hikaru unwittingly ends up spraying his freshly brewed arabica all over his kitchen counter. 

* * *

Jim is eleven: young and filled with the pained hurt of the abandoned as he steals the car and leaps from the Corvette, dirty fingers scrabbling at dirt and stone as he pulls himself up the cliff. He contemplates letting go— serves Mom right, for leaving, and serves Sam right if he dies. Everyone leaves in the end, and Jim’s known this reality since he was born— 

Jim is fourteen: bitter, rebellious and angry to the bone, shipped off to a colony planet by CPS after one too many physical altercations with Frank. It’s unexpectedly beautiful and the planet is a dream until it’s not. Jim is running, terrified, holding the hands of a dozen frightened kids, digging through trash and dirt for edible mouthfuls, crying and starving and watching the world around them wither and die and— 

Jim is eighteen: lying on the bar floor with a broken cheekbone and bruised eye socket, courtesy of the drunken louts he picks a fight with. Someone breaks a glass bottle against his head, and Jim spends his night in the Emergency Room getting glass picked out of his wounds like a moron. The tricorder picks up a small bleed in his brain from the beating, but the Emergency Attending promises he’ll live to tell the tale, so Jim doesn’t worry one bit about dying, not when he’s lived through four years ago— 

Jim is twenty-two: again, lying drunk on a tavern floor, only Pike’s there to pull him up. A dare’s a dare and Jim signs on to Starfleet, fuck four years, he’ll do it in three, just because he can— 

Jim is twenty-five: young and foolhardy and a cocky little shit. He bends the rules because no-win scenarios don’t exist and gets a spanking for his troubles. Jim doesn’t like Spock, not very much after the disciplinary hearing, but it doesn’t matter when a planet implodes and Jim’s just running and not thinking, screaming as a giant alien lobster threatens to kill him on an ice planet. He lives, only because another Vulcan saves him (one who happens to be from an alternate universe) and tells him the answer to his problem lies in goading his anal-retentive alternate self into a mental breakdown. Yeah, that’s a brilliant idea, just as Jim’s being choked to death and he’s about to pass out when his airways open and he wheezes gratefully for oxygen— 

Jim is twenty-six: and dying again, only this time it takes, until it doesn’t. He dies with his hand on glass and words on the tip of his tongue he doesn’t say, reaching for his First Officer and friend he cannot touch— 

Jim is just shy of thirty: hurtling towards oblivion until a hand grasps him tight, warm and solid and endlessly familiar. What would I do without you, Spock, he says, a dozen words unspoken between them. The truth is this: what he means to say is— 

Jim is thirty-two: and dying, a dozen blades through his side, each breath he takes bubbles with frothy red blood. Spock whispers words in Jim’s head, quiet and sweet and fleeting, and so Jim promises to stay, pushing breath after breath through tired lungs because he promised.

Jim doesn’t die on Beta Aurigae III, and Spock’s presence in his mind soothes him into restfulness. _Sleep now, Jim. I will be here when you wake._

Jim sleeps. 

* * *

There’s nothing more laughable than a Captain afraid of his own ship. 

Jim sees that now as he stands at the mouth of Engineering, breathing slow, measured gulps of air. Logically, it shouldn’t be this hard, Jim knows. Several dozen steps forward, up the staircase, and to the left. He’s been there a thousand times before, looked up at the marvel of engineering that is the heart of his ship and felt nothing but awe and pride, with just an ounce of measured arrogance. 

Yeah, well. Good job, Kirk. He’s paying for his hubris now. 

If there’s one thing Jim doesn’t deserve, it’s the myriad of second chances he’s been afforded, in particular, another shot at a Captaincy he’s not entirely sure he deserves. The Enterprise bled crewmen into the deep of space in the battle with the _Vengeance_ , fifty-six souls whose bodies were never recovered; Jim has their names engraved on his conscience, the indelible ink of regret staining his hands a deep blood red. 

Jim can name each and every one of them in alphabetical order, remember their rank, designation and the way they each smiled and said, “Good morning, Captain.” And yet that isn’t enough to make his heavy legs walk into Engineering, propel him past the threshold to where he needs to go. 

The mere thought of approaching the warp core makes him break into a cold sweat. He’s thankful at least that the Engineering crew working on restoring his ship have left for the night — no one to watch if he dry-heaves his way to the antechamber. 

God, what a fucking joke. Jim has walked through and toured all twenty-two decks of his ship wearing good humour and a smile, he can bloody well walk into Engineering even if it kills him. 

“Captain?” The hint of a Scottish burr makes him wince. Shit. 

“Scotty.” Jim manages. The last thing Jim wants is an audience, not when he’s a godforsaken mess with sweating palms and trembling hands. Scotty looks entirely too alert for someone who has spent sixteen hours buried in the bowels of a starship, damn him, his grey eyes crinkling with good humour. 

“No one informed me you’d be visitin’ Engineering today — good lord, laddie, are you alright?” It’s really just fucking perfect timing that Jim stumbles, his hand white-knuckled and pale as he grasps the steel railing with shaking hands. 

“No, don’t— It’s fine, Scotty. I’m alright.” The vulnerability in his voice is painfully obvious even to him. “Would you blame me if I didn’t want anyone to see me like this?” 

A harsh outtake of breath. “Jim, no one would think any less of you if you avoided Engineering for a wee time.” Scotty’s touch on his shoulder is an anchor, grounding in its reassurance, and Jim swallows his shame as far as it will go.

“That’s just it. Sixteen Starfleet officers died in Engineering trying to keep the ship in the air. What would that say about me, if I can’t stand where they died and honour their sacrifice?” 

“Jim, you did. You died to keep us safe,” Scotty counters. 

“Yeah, well. Lucky me. I get to keep on living.” Jim mutters, mostly to himself.

Scotty stares at him, entirely too silent for a moment. And Jim could do casually flippant, sidestepping his grief and guilt with the expert skill of someone with entirely too much traumatic life experience, but this is Scotty, and so Jim doesn’t. 

“Come with me.” Scotty says after a lifetime, soft and gentle as he guides Jim into the heart of Engineering. 

Jim has always known Scotty to be a good man, his rough-hewn exterior and frank disposition belying a man with a gentle and affable nature. An excellent engineer, he touched the ship with delicate hands and steady adoration and was endlessly dedicated to the subordinates under his care. 

Scotty looks upon him with the same kindness now as Jim falters in his steps, pale-faced and breathing hard, supporting the bulk of his weight when his panic threatens to pull him under. It is forever compressed in the agony of minutes, and Jim is wordlessly grateful when he is finally able to press his clammy forehead against the cold, unforgiving glass of the antechamber door. 

“I have served under a dozen different Captains, all brave and respectable in their own right, but you, Jim— you didn’t think twice about entering the warp core. That, laddie, exhibits the very nature of who you are, a man who’d choose to do the right thing, no matter the cost. A man deserving of his rank a hundred times over, and someone I am proud to call my Captain.” Scotty says quietly, his voice echoing above still silence. 

“People died because of me,” Jim mutters dully. 

“No, Jim. Because of your sacrifice, three hundred and fifty-four crew members were able to go home. And we are immeasurably grateful.” 

* * *

The trip to Sigma IX is clearly an ambassadorial milk run, one meant to ease Captain Kirk back into the regular hum-drum of space travel while simultaneously being an unspoken test to gauge his fitness for the continued Captaincy of a Starfleet flagship. 

Kirk’s less-than-perfect psych evals are an open secret at this point, and Nyota knows the Admiralty has beady little eyes on them, watching for any misstep that could bring Kirk’s career crumbling around his ears. That’s Starfleet Command for you: championing the hero of the Federation to the press and anyone who will listen, a gentle and quiet push towards early retirement if you step out of line. 

Nyota won’t stand for it. She won’t let him fuck this up, not when they’ve gotten this far.

The data packet Starfleet Intelligence provides is brief: Sigma IX, Class M planet, three hundred and twenty colonists, human, East Asian origin. The mission: to speak to the head of their governing body with regards to the planet’s viability in supporting a larger number of colonists. 

Nyota knows their history: the original colonists departed the Okinawa Prefecture in the late twenty-second century when increasing tectonic activity made the islands a less-than-ideal area of habitation, choosing a tiny M-class planet on the fringes of Federation territory as their future home. 

And oh, what a planet it is. She will admit the colonists have excellent taste. Sigma IX or _Hashima_ , named after an obsolete island-city from the twentieth-century, is as beautiful as the brochures say, a marvel of traditional Japanese architecture set against the backdrop of a brilliant blue sky and vibrant alien foliage. Wild forests a multitude of colour span the horizon, and even Nyota, preoccupied with the procedures of diplomacy and no stranger to seductive alien planets, feels a sense of wonder at the sight of so much raw and untamed beauty around her. 

The formalities are satisfyingly brief— Kirk says all the right words, smiles that charming rakish grin for the cameras and the paperwork is signed within minutes. It’s enough to give Nyota mild indigestion even as she breathes a sigh of relief and suppresses the tiniest hint of disappointment at returning to the Enterprise early. 

When their host offers them an opportunity to linger on the planet a day longer and make use of their famed traditional hot springs, Nyota accepts and wonders if she can entice Spock into taking advantage of the facilities together. 

* * *

Spock wakes within the confines of Sick Bay six hours and fifty-three minutes after slipping from the meld unconscious, a prodigiously long time for a Vulcan to assuage exhaustion. It is not unexpected, given the intensity of the meld and the degree of energy utilised in the stabilisation of Jim’s state. Nevertheless, Spock is reassured by the strength of the mental link as he telepathically tests the bond carefully. Jim is asleep and _alive_ , and Spock cannot ask for more than that. 

The gossamer strands of the link hum reassurance, the essence of Jim (brave, foolish, singular Jim) soothing his senses, and Spock sends a pulse of comfort across the bond before gently sliding his shields up. He extricates himself from the biobed when he hears approaching footsteps, looking up to meet Nyota’s concerned gaze. 

“Spock,” Nyota murmurs, a gentle smile on her face, “how are you feeling?”

Sentiment. A human expression, but not unwelcome. “I am well, Nyota,” Spock replies. He is familiar enough with the human desire for physical comfort, and relaxes into the serenity her warm embrace offers. Nyota’s presence has always been a steadying influence, and the cessation of their romantic relationship eight months ago has done little to change the essence of their interactions. 

“We were so worried— you were melded to the Captain for hours before you suddenly collapsed. Doctor McCoy’s neural scans picked up overactivity in the prefrontal, frontal and temporal cortex— it’s like nothing we’ve ever seen before, are you sure you’re alright?” Nyota’s worry is understandable, and he does not begrudge her her emotionalism. 

“Vulcans do not lie,” he allows. “It is to be expected. Vulcan neuroanatomy allows for neuroplasticity and a degree of remodelling is expected after the formation of new neural links—”

He can feel the surprise well up within her before she does. “Spock, what did you do?” She pulls away, forcing him to sit. 

“I do not see the value of this discussion—” The sharp look Nyota shoots him would make a lesser being quail in terror. 

“You’re deliberately prevaricating.” He does not reply, though an unfamiliar glint in her eye gives him pause. “You bonded with Kirk, didn’t you?” 

“Yes,” Spock finally admits. The silence that follows lasts long enough that he peers at her, taking in Nyota’s knowing gaze. “Somehow, this does not surprise you.”

“Not particularly.” Nyota snorts. “I think you’ve been building up to this moment for the last six years.” 

“You misunderstand— it was not my intention to form the bond out of attachment. It was done purely with the intention of keeping the Captain alive. It is a deplorable act, rendered necessary by his critical condition to which I formed a bond between us without his consent, something which I plan on remedying once Jim regains consciousness.” He looks away. “Nyota, this bond is not a mating pair bond. Jim and I, we are _t’hy’la_ — the warrior bond spoken of in ancient Vulcan literature. It is not romantic.” 

“Oh, Spock.” Nyota murmurs. “You know as well as I that the Vulcan language has many nuances when describing the concept of friendship.” Her eyes are dark and enigmatic though the twist of the corner of her lips makes him think of a smile. 

“ _Nash-veh rok du dungi ak ken-tor wuh gluder t' ish-veh khaf-spol, Spock, sa-fu t' Sarek_.”[1] She leaves before Spock can question the veracity of a statement he does not understand.

* * *

The hot springs on Sigma IX allow mixed-gender bathing, to Nyota’s satisfaction. With some amusement, Nyota notes Spock’s faint reluctance to enter the water appears to stem from concerns of privacy rather than a native desert-dweller’s aversion to heated pools of water. 

After assurances from their host that the use of the hot springs has been booked exclusively for their party, Nyota sinks into the heated depths, twisting her hair into an untidy knot atop her head. As Spock lowers himself into the water, Nyota languidly admires the gleam of his milky-pale skin, a faint green flush colouring the shade of his cheeks and the tips of his ears. 

The murky blue depths of the element-rich waters obscure their nakedness, but in that moment, Nyota is struck by a particular loveliness, the vulnerable intimacy of a bared Vulcan, beautiful and regal in repose, rivulets of water caressing the strong line of his throat, his dark eyes warm and somber amidst the billowing steam around them. 

“The warmth of the water is not unpleasant,” Spock comments, and Nyota smiles. 

A sound gives her pause, and Nyota whirls around to see a shock of blond hair some distance away, camouflaged by the wafts of surrounding steam. The sight of a naked Jim Kirk, eyes closed and boneless, body curled and contemplative, feet dipped in the dark depths of the hot spring pulls her back to reality. 

“Captain.” Spock acknowledges, and Nyota tamps down a sigh. 

“Sorry. I can leave.” Kirk says, blue eyes soft and mellow, but the sound of genuine apology in his tone makes Nyota regret her initial displeasure. 

“No, stay.” Nyota says impulsively, “it’s alright.” 

“I don’t want to intrude—” 

“Your presence is not unwelcome, Jim.” Spock interjects. His brows furrow. Even from a distance, the blue-black discolouration under Kirk’s eyes is plain against the pallor of his skin. 

“Are you alright, Captain?” Nyota asks. 

“I- It’s hard to say.” The hesitation is uncharacteristic for all she knows of Jim Kirk, and is enough to make her pause. 

Spock’s frown deepens. “Captain, if you would allow me to retrieve Doctor McCoy—” 

“No, please, don’t.” A sigh. “Bones has enough on his plate with the new staff training, my check-ups and the research publication Starfleet Medical is making him write. I swear, I’m not about to go Khan-level homicidal on you. I think I’m just tired.” 

“You will tell us if something is wrong?” Nyota probes. Despite the eight months of rehabilitation, the Captain appears thinner than before, his musculature slowly filling out under the steady eye of Doctor McCoy, multiple protein supplements and a steady diet of regular exercise and sparring with Spock. 

“Of course, Lieutenant.” Jim’s smile is earnest, and oh, it is hard to forget what a beautiful man he is. 

“You handled yourself with _Hashima_ colonists very well. It was good work,” Nyota says instead. 

“Such high praise coming from you, Lieutenant Uhura— I’m blushing.” Teasing flirtation, a flash of the old Kirk makes her smile. Good. He hasn’t gone to ground. The Captain raises an eyebrow in a passing mimicry of Spock’s expression. “I might even start thinking you care.” 

“Oh shut up, Kirk. You put us through the wringer eight months ago. We’re invested.” Nyota snarks back. “Besides, a good deal of effort went into getting you up to scratch. I don’t have the time to train up another Captain.” 

It elicits an honest-to-god guffaw, soft and filled with pleasure, and it’s enough to make Nyota’s heart feel a little lighter. They’ve all been worried, some more than others— it would be hard not to, given the circumstances. 

“Yeah, you’ll always be my favourite linguist too, Uhura.” Jim says, honest and uncalculated, and Nyota bites back a smile. He’s right, of course— she has warmed to him, slowly but surely, just as he surreptitiously wormed his way into her heart. For all his blustering and posturing, Nyota has not forgotten the events of Qo'noS and the way Kirk charged recklessly into a stand-off with Klingons with no thought of his own safety, preoccupied with the greater priority of her own. 

She does not miss the way he smiles now, soft and plaintive, head tipped back in welcome at the sight of familiar stars against an unfamiliar night sky. 

Wistful is not an expression she’s ever expected Jim Kirk to have, and crossing the indeterminable chasm to Jim Kirk has never been her forte. That role has always existed for Spock to fill, like the seamless fit of the final puzzle piece in a thousand-piece jigsaw, and Nyota, a realist of the highest order, is well-aware when her presence is not required. 

A pointed look at Spock, a slight incline in reply. Nyota gathers her dignity and steps out of the water, proudly and defiantly nude, slowly wrapping a towel around her frame. 

Kirk’s gaze, bless him, does not deviate from the sight of the night sky. 

“You’re ours, Kirk. You belong aboard the Enterprise, through and through, and if the Admiralty wants you gone, they’re prying you from our cold, dead fingers.” It surprises her how much she means it. 

Jim laughs. “That, Lieutenant, is the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.” 

* * *

Spock has not been professionally educated in the aptitudes of clinical medicine, but one does not need a medical degree to see what is abundantly clear before him: the Captain is not, and has not been ‘alright’. 

The marked tension in Jim’s brows, elevated heart rate ten point three six beats above baseline, reduced intake and slow trajectory of weight gain have in summation been indicators of less-than-adequate mental well-being that have concerned Spock in the preceding weeks, enough to bring up his observations to Doctor McCoy. 

It is the Doctor’s response, however, simultaneously colourful and bizarrely cryptic in reply, that is entirely baffling to Spock’s comprehension. 

“Jim’s always had his demons, a whole fucking host of them, and there’s nothing you, me, or the blessed Virgin Mary can do about it.” McCoy says brusquely, ignoring the upward tick of Spock’s eyebrow. 

“I do not take your meaning, Doctor. I see little relevance as to how the modern liturgical religion of Roman Catholicism and classical mythical demonology relates to the Captain’s welfare.”

“Christ on a cracker— you’re thick, Spock.” McCoy snorts. “Okay, simple words — Jim’s always had issues, nothing new to see here. He deals with them in his own way, and he’ll come to you when he’s ready, and not a moment sooner.” 

“Doctor, the Captain is exhibiting signs and symptoms of significant physiological stress—” Spock interjects.

“Look, Spock, I’m just as worried as you, if not more. But you know as well as I that there’s a difference between capacity and a goddamn speed bump, and this— this is a speed bump. Whether I agree with it or not, Starfleet psych assessments have cleared him fit for duty, and Jim’s performance indexes are adequate, he’s operating at eighty-six point five percent efficiency, well within two standard deviations of his norm. I don’t disagree, he _will_ crash eventually if this keeps up, but there’s a reason why you and I are here, capiche? So don’t go pulling the plug and quoting General Order 28 out of your ass or I will fucking eviscerate you.” The last few words are hissed out with surprising venom, enough to make Spock step back in surprise. 

“Doctor, I do not wish to remove the Captain from duty.” Spock says, soft and steady across the distance between them. “Jim is my friend.” 

The tension dissipates as quickly as it comes. “Yeah,” McCoy says wearily, “yeah. I know.” 

Spock has not forgotten the words said during his discourse with Doctor McCoy two weeks ago, even as he sits within the hazy blue depths of a heated hot spring, observing silently as Jim gazes at the stars with sleepy, hooded eyes. 

“Absolute honesty, right? Between us.” The Captain asks abruptly, the veneer of a brittle artificial smile evaporating between them. 

Spock looks upon that familiar face, normally filled with laughter and amusement, and experiences the true strength and bond of the connection that lies between them, the desire to ease the suffering in someone he would call his friend. 

“Of course, Jim.” 

It is only logical to reassure and comfort a being well-cherished, and so Spock reaches over to lay a gentle touch on Jim’s exposed knee, the whispered essence of his being sending a pulse of comfort through the telepathic connection of skin against skin. 

“I’m glad you’re here,” Jim says to him, warm and soft and filled with an emotion Spock is unable to name. In that moment, as the tension eases from Jim’s shoulders, Spock wonders about the many-faceted nature of _t’hy’la_ , and if its significance was to make him feel complete. 

zoomed-in image of above pic of Jim and Spock

* * *

Leonard has spent the last six hours with his hands buried in Jim’s chest and abdominal cavity, and it’s one thing to know your friend intimately, quite another to be personally acquainted with his internal organs. Still, Leonard’s an excellent surgeon— he knows the human body like the back of his hand, knows the second Jim stabilises after he ligates bleeding artery after bleeding artery, regenerating destroyed tissue and pulling the essence of Jim back together again. 

Jim lives due in no small part to Leonard’s efforts to keep him breathing (no thanks to Jim, who was trying his darndest to die), and fuck, Leonard’s no miracle worker, and sure, it works today, but one day, Leonard’s not going to be able to put Humpty Dumpty back together again, and ain’t that the rub? 

Leonard’s an exhausted wreck at the end of it all. Sure, his hands don’t shake and his posture is steady (a professional advantage) but God, Jim has taken years off his lifespan with his antics. It’s enough to make him question if he can keep this up in the future — their five-year mission is ending, and he’s counting down every second of it. 

His office provides an unimpeded view into the ICU bay, and he can see the faint outline of Jim’s body lying motionless in white sheets, the steady, gentle beep of telemetry announcing Jim’s continued survival. A figure sits in a neighbouring chair, head bowed slightly as if in deep in prayer, and Leonard’s spent enough time with Vulcans to know that they aren’t religious in a classical human context, but Leonard knows that look, the pale knuckles of tightly clenched hands, the downturn of his mouth muttering words too quiet for him to hear, the blatant emotionalism in his eyes. Who is Leonard to begrudge him the relative comfort of appeals to a higher power? 

This one was a close one, and Leonard could very well have been the one sitting at Jim’s bedside, muttering the Lord’s prayer with shameless dedication, if he wasn’t too fucking exhausted to crawl over to the room and engage in conversation with the hobgoblin. 

Never again, he thinks, but really, realistically, who is he kidding. He could never leave Jim to falter in cold, unforgiving space on his own. 

* * *

Over the years, Jim’s sleep patterns have delineated purely out of self-preservation— either it’s of the complete dead to the world restive variety that Jim gets to have on occasion (when there’s nothing to do except star charting and boredom), versus the light, nervous sleep of the habitually wary. His dreams feature the recurring showstoppers of Tarsus, Vulcan imploding, Spock surrendering in the volcano, the light fading from Pike’s eyes, the coldness of the warp core’s antechamber and the feeling of every nerve ending screaming its inevitable end before the world fades around him. 

Yeah, Jim has lived (or died, but who’s counting) through some fucked-up shit, so sue him. 

Tonight’s version of entertainment is a redux of Jim’s death in the warp core, only it’s Spock’s face behind the glass, as Jim screams and pounds uselessly at the antechamber door. And it feels — the agony of this moment is incalculable, there is no solution, there is no way out of this, there is just this. Inevitability. 

I have been, and always shall be, your friend, the Spock behind the glass says serenely, and Jim screams because it’s wrong—

Jim wakes, a scream caught in his throat between the frantic thrashing of limbs, nearly kicking the figure standing next to his bed in the midsection. 

“Captain— Jim! Be at peace, you are safe here.” Familiar, reassuring warmth, the light pressure of a hand on his shoulder. Jim stares, eyes wide at the sight of Spock, standing in the low lighting of his bedroom, his brown eyes filled with worry and concern for Jim. 

“It is merely a dream,” Spock reassures him gently, and Jim, caught in the transitory state between nightmare and reality, doesn’t let the rational part of his brain tell him what a bad idea this is and pulls Spock into a loose embrace. 

This is real. Spock is here, alive. This is real. 

Thankfully, Spock doesn’t punch him in the face or nerve-pinch him into oblivion, a gentle hand rubbing comforting circles into the expanse of Jim’s sweat-soaked back. It is perhaps telling about the state of their relationship, now so changed from what it was in its infancy, different in a multitude of ways that Jim is hesitant to quantify. The honesty and trust between them is wordless and absolute, and Jim lets the thin filmy veneer of his shields go, shaking silently with wordless, heaving sobs, his face buried in the curve of Spock’s shoulder. 

Spock does not pull away, holding him tighter, and Jim breathes in that familiar scent of arid desert sand and meditation incense, the sheer essence of Spock— friend, First Officer, brother— reinforcing his roots, grounding him in the here and now.

It is scant few minutes before Jim pulls away, embarrassed and apologetic. “Sorry, sorry. That was inappropriate of me— ” 

“There is nothing for you to apologise for, Jim. You have survived an immensely traumatic experience and despite your initial protests to the contrary, it is clear you have not emerged entirely unscathed. Do you wish to speak of what distresses you?” And of course, Spock would hit it right on the nose and still be totally, completely wrong. 

“Not really, no.” Jim mutters. It’s just his luck that he’s an ugly crier; even pretty baby-blues can’t save him when they’re red-lined and bloodshot to hell. His voice is raw and Spock’s still looking at him, brows furrowed and a frown marring his usually expressionless features, and Jim has never felt more vulnerable than this moment. Jesus, he’s a mess. 

“Jim, please. Will you tell me what is wrong?” Spock asks, and fuck, Jim could never deny Spock anything.

“I dream of the warp core sometimes—” he winces as Spock’s expression clouds over with barely-concealed emotion but does not interrupt, “—not in the way you’re thinking though. I’m not afraid of dying, not any more. It’s the inevitability in that moment that terrifies me, the finality of it all.” He looks at Spock helplessly. “Sometimes when I dream, it’s someone else trapped behind that door, and I can’t get them out.” 

“I think I’ve watched you die at least twenty times behind that glass door and I can’t do a damn thing to stop it,” Jim confesses. “The glass never breaks and the controls don’t work or you stop me from opening the compartment— it never fucking works and I—” 

“You are emotionally compromised.” Spock states, eyes somber and understanding, as he places a hand on Jim’s forearm. 

Jim closes his eyes and laughs, a bitter knot unravelling in his chest. Vulcans and understatement, man. “Yeah, if you mean how my heart feels as if it’s been ripped from my chest, yeah, I’d say I’m pretty damn well emotionally compromised.” He looks at Spock, questioning. “But I don’t need to be telling you this, after all.” 

“Indeed,” Spock says simply and Jim remembers the sight of Spock, sorrow and despair ripping Vulcan composure to shreds, tears coursing down his cheeks. A shadow of something lingers in Spock’s eyes, even now, and Jim reaches out to grasp Spock’s hand, gripping tightly, reassuringly real and warm. 

“I’m sorry I put you through that.” It’s enough to see Spock take shuddering breaths and close his eyes, acknowledging the depth of what remains unsaid between them. _I am sorry. I am here, I am with you._

“You are here now. It is enough.” Spock says, his hand warm in Jim’s, squeezing lightly before letting go. 

The intimacy of the moment recedes as Jim orders the computer to turn lights to seventy-five percent, taking in Spock’s sleep-tousled hair, familiar Vulcan robes thrown over a plain sleeping shirt and loose meditation pants. Jim’s not usually self-conscious about his body, but Jesus, he really picked the perfect day to sleep in his skivvies. Thankfully, he locates a t-shirt and pants thrown over an armchair, pulling them on before Spock can pointedly judge his untidiness with his eyebrows. 

“Want a drink? I doubt I’m getting back to sleep any time soon.” He knows he has the herbal tea that the Vulcan likes, the one he keeps just for Spock even though it tastes like dirt and is inexplicably foul to anyone with tastebuds. 

The posture of his First Officer is contemplative. “If you are amenable to a relocation, I understand the _Enterprise_ will pass the Orion Nebula in the next one point two eight hours. The view from the Observation deck will be exemplary and I am aware you find such sights pleasing.” 

It is. 

“Though my soul may set in darkness, it will rise in perfect light; I have loved the stars too fondly to be fearful of the night.”[2] Jim whispers from his position lying against the bulkhead, face illuminated by the beauty of cosmic dust and gas whirling in iridescent patterns through the deck window. Spock, beside him, the warmth emanating from his frame reassuring and _right_ , the gentle hum of his ship’s constant reverberation against his back. This— this is all he has ever needed, his crew, his ship, his First Officer and friend watching his six— that is the true foundation of his Captaincy, he is never alone and he never will be. 

And if Jim falls asleep on the floor of the Observation deck, his head pillowed on the edge of Spock’s shoulder, soothed into slumber by familiar comforts, it’s nobody’s business but their own.

* * *

Some time ago, Jim asked him a question which Spock did not answer. 

“Do you dream?” Jim asks, utterly uncalculated and curious, fingers steepled and curved below his chin as he ponders his next chess move. 

Vulcans do not dream, and yet Spock does, albeit rarely, a once stinging reminder he is not wholly Vulcan, despite his efforts to embrace the logical half of his nature. It has been many months past since Spock has felt the tearing dichotomy of his genetic makeup, a being born of two worlds yet never singularly belonging to one— the _Enterprise_ has since subsumed his guilt and sharp edges, his otherness, leaving trace echoes behind. Aboard the ship, he has at times been too Vulcan to be Human, too Human to be wholly Vulcan, but those moments have slowly dwindled until they are no longer present at all. In the present, he is simply Spock, First Officer, Chief Science Officer, half-Vulcan, half-Human— esteemed colleague, trusted friend. 

It is there when he sits on the bridge, in his seat at the Science console or at his work station in the laboratory, when he stands beside the Captain, one step behind, one hand supporting the chair, where he truly understands the inherent truth of Surakian philosophy: _ma etek natyan teretuhr lau etek shetau weh-lo'uk do tum t'on_.[3] They are greater for their differences, and Spock does not regret his decision to serve on board a vessel largely consisting of a human crew, to serve below a human— an inherently emotional, illogical being that the Spock of the past might not have deigned to know. 

No, it is long past since Spock has believed human emotionalism to be a weakness.

* * *

Everyone knows better than to bother Commander Spock with unimportant bullshit when the Captain’s in Sick Bay. 

Of course, no one can question that Commander Spock is a consummate professional; he takes his duties as First Officer and Acting Captain seriously— as serious as a heart attack when he stays the prerequisite hours of his shift and past that, dividing his time between the requirements of the bridge, administrative duties, and his responsibilities as the Chief Science Officer. No one can question his efficacy, as everything carries on like clockwork, even when the Captain is indisposed. 

The crew isn’t blind though— they can see the tension in his frame, the general blankness of his expression a touch more empty than usual. There is a hint of sharpness to Spock’s tone, ordinarily softened by the gentle patience of an academic used to educating beings less astute than himself. The away mission on Beta Aurigae III was a close one, and if that makes the crew work all the more intently at performing to the best of the ability, no one says so, even as efficiency ratings rise a good two point three percent across the board for all crew members. It’s a given, to continue performing optimally for the Captain and for Commander Spock, and so they do. 

The rule is this: no one bothers Commander Spock if he’s not at the bridge or the labs. They all know where he is, but whatever it is, it will keep. 

Hikaru knows what’s up— it takes a little effort, but if sixty percent of Spock’s shifts at conn duty get changed to Pavel’s or Hikaru’s name on the duty roster? It’s nothing but a little coincidence, is all. They’ve been at this long enough that Pavel’s not a kid any more; they’ve both gotten the hang of this and they know the drill, they will call him if anything big comes up, and as much as Spock’s presence is reassuring and a comfort to them all, it’s not strictly necessary. His time is better served doing what he intends to do, thank you very much. 

Yeah, so Hikaru pretty much shoves Spock off the bridge and he’s not even a little ashamed. Vulcans need very little sleep and are pretty much machines in living, breathing form, and Hikaru may not be a Vulcan whisperer the way Jim is, but even he can see the signs of wear around Spock’s eyes. 

Sometimes when he visits Sick Bay, he finds Spock sleeping in the chair adjacent to Jim’s bed and doesn’t say a thing. Sometimes, if he catches Spock awake and whispering quietly in Vulcan to Jim’s unconscious form, Hikaru will excuse himself quietly with a silent nod of understanding and give his two commanding officers their privacy. 

Hikaru has a secret that he’s never told anyone, one that he’ll carry to his grave if he has anything to say about it.

The thing is this— Starfleet expects all cadets, even Command ones, to complete one Xenolinguistics course and gain proficiency in it. And okay, proficiency is probably a little disingenuous when the Academy just requires a minimum grade B. Still, everyone aboard the _Enterprise_ knows Kirk speaks Orion fluently and knows enough Tellarite in a pinch, Uhura is a linguistics genius, Spock was her professor and exemptions were made because Pavel speaks three different Slavic languages and was working on his Standard. Hikaru? Nobody knows this, but Hikaru took Vulcan 101. 

He’s never taught by Spock (thank fucking god) because Spock only enjoys torturing people who know how to conjugate Vulcan verbs and can say things other than asking for directions to the fresher. And yeah, maybe Hikaru never got past Basic Vulcan (his accent’s shit and he got a very shaky B overall), but he knows enough— enough to understand the language streaming from Spock’s lips as he murmurs quietly to the Captain’s still form. 

The point is, Hikaru can understand a little Vulcan, but he’s pretty sure that Spock has no clue that he does, because the stuff coming out of Spock’s mouth isn’t prayer — it’s something much more personal and intimate that Hikaru really shouldn’t be listening to. 

Spock speaks the language of his people, telling Jim stories: anecdotes about his childhood, the beauty of sunsets on ShiKahr he will never have the opportunity to bring Jim to see, the way his mother’s eyes lit up at the sight of paper novels (an illogical trait she shared with Jim), the fear he suppresses every time Jim beams down to a planet without him. He tells Jim he must wake because Spock cannot do this without him, the ship will always be theirs and not his alone, he is essential, he is necessary. 

Hikaru’s been embarrassingly in love before. He knows the signs. And if that’s not a Vulcan love confession, Hikaru doesn’t know what is. 

* * *

There’s a certain momentum to finding your place among the stars, Jim realises as he settles into his role as Captain during the five-year mission, one easily achievable with practice. With that momentum comes monotony; the job is one part over-priced ambassadorial shuttle service, one part gratuitous lip service, one part mind-numbing tedium. And Jim should have been known better: even the glory and excitement of meeting new civilisations and exploring strange new worlds will eventually get old, boring even. 

The days blend together as Jim stares at the endless skies of a hundred different planets, sits through yet another geological survey, and shakes an endless stream of hands, some eager and grasping, many obsequious. A hero of the Federation, he’s trumpeted over subspace channels. Secretly, Jim questions if this is the life he’s always wanted, or whether he chose this life with the express purpose of flipping off his absent father. 

Time passes, and now he’s nearly thirty— thirty! One year older than his father ever got to be. It’s enough to make him want to simultaneously scream and be sick all over his goddamn Captain’s chair. The days go by, and Jim changes his haircut, gets mauled by yet another alien species intent on destroying all his shirts (the Ship’s Quartermaster is furious, they’re running low on the pigment used to make Command shirts yellow by dint of Jim’s antics alone), spills yet another coffee on increasingly tight pants and writes another log entry into a Captain’s log that reeks of frank boredom.

Maybe what he needs is a change, he thinks. Solid ground perhaps, to get over this niggling embarrassment of a quarter-life crisis. On an impulse, he applies for the Vice Admiral position at Yorktown, and spends the next day in regretful attentiveness in one of Spock’s senior officer briefings. Spock looks at him all funny (Jim is a good little Captain these days, but never _this_ good), and Jim wonders if he’s made a huge fucking mistake. 

He can’t tell Spock, not like this. Not when it could all be for nothing. He doesn’t want to see the look of betrayal in Spock’s eyes. And what would he say, really? The truth that Jim is lost, adrift in space like the _Flying Dutchman_ at sea, with nothing but a rusty compass and naïve dreams to guide him to what he’s looking for. He doesn’t know what he wants— not really. 

And so Jim contemplates leaving, taking one last mission to make it count, except Jim’s beautiful, state-of-the-art ship gets wrecked by assholes who steal his crew, and really, that’s the last fucking straw. 

A different kind of resolve floods his veins, ice-cold with measured fury channeled into the purposeful goals of reclaiming his crew. It’s personal, this rage, and Jim would do anything for the people who claimed him when he was nothing, who championed him and loved him and saw him for his own deeds. 

It’s enough to make Jim realise that perhaps what he was looking for in the deep of space was purpose; the drive to keep his people safe more powerful than any other force he knows. He knows he’s right when he sees the look on their faces at Krall’s base, amused and unsurprised. There are two certainties in the existence of Jim Kirk: the Captain, one dramatic sonovabitch who never could resist a grand entrance, would never leave his crew behind. 

And so they barrel on, saving Yorktown from complete destruction. Jim, for his efforts, is nearly sent careening out of a goddamn airlock into space, except Spock’s there (with fucking impeccable timing) to catch him as he falls. 

It’s at that moment where Jim realises he could never choose to give this up willingly, not in a million years, not when he has Spock (trustworthy, loyal, _fucking amazing_ Spock) and a hundred different reasons that speak of adventure and passion, but also of families of choice and the nature of bonds that bind deeper than blood. Their faith in him is his North Star, a guiding light in the relative aimlessness of space, and Jim? Jim’s not fucking lost any more. 

* * *

Nobody likes it when Mommy and Daddy are fighting.

Ordinarily, Jim would find this shit fucking hilarious (Jim’s not the Mommy, no matter how many low-hanging fruit jibes Bones makes), but Jim’s pissed as hell, and seething is a bad idea when fighting with your second-in-command in an open corridor in front of witnesses. Jim’s tired and cranky— covered in muddy swamp water isn’t a good look for him, and the gash on his abdomen twinges bloody murder with movement. Spock, on his part, supports his weight with ease, gently pressing the remnants of his Science blue tunic against his wound, and yeah, did Jim mention he’s so annoyed he could scream? 

And yeah, maybe the issue runs deeper than Spock disobeying a direct order Jim gives in the heat of the moment, Jim’s heart beating a heavy rhythm in his throat as he watched the Denebian slime devil narrowly miss impaling Spock on the tips of its claws. It’s definitely more than that when he looks at Spock, soft and gentle and not at all defensive in the face of Jim’s temper, and all Jim can think about is losing Spock— losing him to the jaws that bite, the claws that catch,[4] to the inevitability of time and distance and the pull of a purpose greater than he. 

It’s more selfish than Jim would like to think about, but Jim’s one stubborn, petty asshole when he wants to be. 

“Not to Sick Bay. Cabin.” Jim snaps, daring Spock to disagree. He doesn’t. Little victories, he’ll take them where he can get them. 

Whatever, he knows he’ll be fine. Denebian slime devils aren’t poisonous and by Jim’s definition, if his intestines ain’t falling out, it doesn’t warrant anything more than a good wash with antiseptic and a date with a dermal regenerator. He doesn’t want to deal with Bones now. He’ll pay for it in a few hours when Bones comes calling, but right now, he doesn’t give a flying fuck. 

They make it to Jim’s room, and Jim deposits himself into the couch as Spock retrieves a cloth and dermal regenerator from their shared bathroom. The words tumble out as Spock returns, annoyed and vicious and more than a little unfair. 

“I told you— I had it under control.” 

“Indeed, Captain.” Spock’s reply is measured as he delicately peels Jim’s shirt from his torso. They both squint at the wound. It’s not overtly terrible-looking, and the damp cloth Spock presses and dabs at the wound provides cool relief. 

“The slime devil nearly took your fucking head off, Spock— if it had killed you—” And Jim’s not playing at cooperation, flinching away from Spock’s hands as he probes the depth of the wound carefully. “Hey, watch it, Spock— ow!” 

“I would be remiss in my responsibilities if I had allowed you to incapacitate the Denebian slime devil on your own.” Spock says, gentle fingers running a dermal regenerator along the length of the gash. The skin itches, and Jim tries not to pull away. 

“Your responsibilities include listening to me when I give you an order, Spock.” Jim argues. 

“I will not stand idly by and watch you place yourself at risk, Captain.” Spock says calmly, attention focused on the task before him. Fuck that, Jim hates how Spock is all calm and unruffled, tone steady even when Jim is a hair’s breadth from violent explosion, and it’s a total horrifying flashback to the time Spock offered himself calmly as tribute to a damn volcano, and god, Jim can’t fucking handle this crap. 

“At risk? I was handling it, all I had was a scratch, and you basically offered yourself as a delicious fucking snack to the damn slime devil, you idiot—” 

“Jim, name-calling is not—”

“Oh, so it’s Jim now? I’ll give you personal— personal is me nearly losing my shit when I saw the damn thing come within inches of killing you. Personal is me, mad as hell now, and you refusing to engage, personal is me getting a damn memo about you planning to leave Starfleet and not hearing a peep out of you about it for the last three months!” Jim yells in the privacy of his room. 

And really, that’s just about the crux of the issue altogether. 

“You could have told me,” Jim mutters, not at all sulkily, refusing to meet Spock’s eyes. He’s been waiting for the shoe to drop for like, _forever_ , and really, he’s warranted a little childish behaviour. 

“I believe that report was erroneously sent to you, Jim.” Jim’s abdomen is all itchy, freshly-grown skin always itches to high heaven. “I did not wish to distress you, given that the request had been withdrawn prior to the launch of the _Enterprise-A_.” Spock says as he turns the dermal regenerator off, and Jim meets those even brown eyes, so human in their warmth and softness. It’s enough to make the bubble of self-righteous anger deflate like a sad little balloon with a hole. _God_. 

“Well, you have a funny way of showing it, Mister Spock.” Jim says with the last tinges of his annoyance. 

“Jim, that request was made before the events of Altamid. It does not hold any weight in this discussion, given that I have no desire to leave the _Enterprise_.” Spock says carefully, and yeah, Jim’s reminded guiltily of the time Spock asked briefly about Jim’s meeting with Commodore Paris and never pressed. 

A difficult, complicated emotion wells up in Jim’s chest. “Yeah, whatever.” 

“I had previously made a pact with my counterpart that I would remain on the Enterprise while he continued his efforts on New Vulcan. With his passing, I was— conflicted. However, I have since come to the conclusion that I am still able to contribute to my people while aboard the _Enterprise_.” Spock says, and okay, Jim’s an asshole a million times over. 

“Spock, you’ve discovered six new minerals and helped pioneer a new way to bioengineer extinct Vulcan vegetables in our last four years in space. You’re contributing plenty,” Jim insists, reaching for Spock. 

“It does not necessarily equate to contribution in the eyes of my people. Nevertheless, I find I am not preoccupied with the opinions of others.” Spock is entirely too stoic, and Jim fucking hates that. 

“Their loss, my gain,” Jim says, tone honest and serious, and is blessed with a gentle twitch of Spock’s lips. 

“That is unnecessary, Jim, but it is appreciated.” A squeeze of Jim’s hand where it lies on Spock’s shoulder an acknowledgement. 

And it’s this, the back and forth that Jim values, the forgiveness and understanding that has always been so easy between them. Apologies have never been necessary when Spock can read the remorse in Jim’s fingertips and the deep affection that lies between them; words have never been required when one party is a telepath.

“Absolute honesty between us, right?” Jim asks. 

“Of course, Jim.” 

“Good, cause I really need to ask: since when do you have a fucking tattoo?” Jim says incredulously, staring at the discreet serpentine mark hidden on the inside of Spock’s exposed bicep. 

Spock, for all of his Vulcan restraint, gives in to an almost eye-roll and refuses to answer. 

* * *

It serves Leonard right for giving in to the temptation to check on Jim once last time before heading to bed; Spock has ears like a fucking fox, he doesn’t so much as startle when Leonard sneaks up behind him, a two-birds one-stone manoeuvre perfected after much practice at managing two of the _Enterprise’s_ most tenacious doctor-dodgers. 

“Doctor McCoy.” Spock says with his back to the door, and Leonard doesn’t so much as look at the Vulcan as he belligerently waves his tricorder in Spock’s face. 

Spock’s sitting upright in the chair by Jim’s bed, but looking at the readings Leonard’s getting, he _probably shouldn’t be_ , and it’s enough to make Leonard frown and start planning vitamin cocktails and treatment regimens and the like. Vulcans treat homeostasis like it’s an inherent skill they master from birth, mastery of the body and all that— the fact Spock’s vitals are doing the hula on the upper limits of normal is _concerning_ , dammit, enough to make him wonder if it has anything to do with his recent brain scans. 

“My parameters are well within the acceptable range of the Vulcan haemodynamic profile,” Spock demurs. Leonard puts an end to that debate by handily stabbing him with a hypo, which Spock accepts with minimal fuss, unlike some other infant he knows. 

“You. Bed rest. Three days—” Leonard sinks enough malevolence into his tone that would make anyone not personally acquainted with his particular brand of winsome bedside manner whimper. Spock doesn’t even flinch, bloody bastard opening his mouth to argue because of course he does, “—unless you’re sitting here under my observation. No bridge duty until I clear you. And I want to find out what the hell you did with Jim, you hear me?” 

Leonard can count on one hand the number of times Spock has expressed emotion in front of him— just twice, the first when Jim provoked him into a little strangle fest on the bridge and the second while bleeding out on Altamid, an experience he isn’t keen to repeat (the witnessing of emotions, dammit, he’s a doctor, not a professional hand-holder). Vulcans normally do fantastic impressions of Alderbaran shellmouths when backed into tight corners— yet the discomfiture on Spock’s face is both amusing and disconcerting, the tightness of his shoulders tells Leonard more than enough about it being Private Vulcan Mindwhammy Business. No matter. The Vulcan gets a free pass tonight because he saved Jim’s life. Leonard may not be getting an answer out of the green-blooded elf today, but he’s sure as hell going to dig it out of M’Benga tomorrow. 

“I apologise, Doctor, for my reticence. I am inclined to disclose the information after I have spoken to Jim. It is— a private matter.” He’s still looking at Jim, expression blank but for thinly-veiled emotion in those human brown eyes, and Jesus H. Christ, counselling the distressed Vulcan sitting at his best friend’s bedside isn’t included in his fucking job description. 

“We’ll wean the ventilatory support tonight and see if his lungs can handle it. If all goes well, he’ll be up and talking tomorrow,” he says abruptly instead. “And Spock? This was a close one.” 

“I am aware.” Spock comments softly. 

Leonard leaves him alone after one last assessing look at Jim’s vitals. He’s just nosy enough to catch Spock indiscreetly take Jim’s hand in his, and Leonard’s not a complete moron, he knows what hand-holding means in Vulcan culture. 

Idiots. The both of them are idiots. 

* * *

“You will need to hold this position for an additional eight more seconds— six, five—” 

Jim, usually filled with a mixture of fondness and exasperation when dealing with his First Officer, will admit he cannot possibly resent Spock more than in this moment, mercilessly pressing hard on the open planes of his back. 

“It fucking burns, Spock, hurry it up.” Jim can feel the blood flushing his face red, sweat pooling at the wings of his shoulder blades, the curve of his temples. His body feels like one giant bruise, a deep, unsettling ache building in his left leg and Spock is relentless, he knew Vulcans would make amazing drill sergeants. 

“Captain, may I remind you that you were given a choice between an extended stay in Sick Bay and completing your physical therapy under supervision in the outpatient setting, and you chose—” 

“Yeah, yeah, you as my slave driver physiotherapist.” Jim wheezes through the burn, as Spock manoeuvres him into yet another configuration of human pretzel. The hem of his exercise shirt rides up and Jim can feel the press of light fingertips at his flank— he toys with the idea of projecting questionable memories of Bones caught in flagrante delicto from their Academy years just to annoy Spock; the unamused huff a response that makes him choke with laughter. 

“Jim, _shielding_.” Warm breath tickles his left ear. Jim sends a not-entirely apologetic thought tinged with laughter across the connection of skin contact before thinking of barriers and impenetrable walls. Spock does not pull away despite the intimacy of bare skin, and neither does he. 

“Hold for five, four, three, two, one.” Spock finally releases the constant pressure on Jim’s forward stretch as Jim collapses in an exhausted heap on the practice mats. It is surprising, given the number of times Jim has endured intensive physical rehabilitation, that each time feels as exhausting as the last. It never gets any easier, Jim thinks ruefully, though it should. He’s not doing too terribly, given that three weeks ago, his left femur was shattered into six different pieces, courtesy of a surprise Klingon minefield left on the edge of the Neutral Zone. He should be grateful there isn’t a hole through the Enterprise’s hull, the shockwave throwing Jim against the unyielding bulkhead and injuring a few dozen others. 

“Are you certain you wish to be part of the away mission when we arrive at Beta Aurigae III?” Spock peers at him with concern. “You are progressing adequately, but I believe Doctor McCoy would be agreeable to extend your sick leave by a few days.”

Jesus. Worriers, the lot of them. Annoyance and stubbornness rarely work on Vulcans; Jim tries old-fashioned wheedling instead. “C’mon, Spock, it’ll be fine, you’ll have my back—” 

“An added risk, should the ship lose both their commanding officer and their second in command—” 

“Spock.” 

Jim knows the second Spock capitulates, brown eyes softening with faint indulgence. It’s enough to make Jim take a breath, to remember that just two years ago, he had considered shackling himself to a desk and leaving all of this behind. That Spock had nearly left, even if Jim had stayed— he thinks of the words he uttered carelessly, his body filled with residual adrenaline and lingering terror as Spock caught him in Yorktown and didn’t let go— Jim cannot imagine doing this without him, it was as true then as it is now. 

“It will be fine,” he repeats, and Spock’s agreement is the gentle incline of his head as he pulls Jim up from the floor. There is little time left to the end of their five-year assignment, a mere six months before they will make their way back to Earth, and Jim needs to feel the innate marvel of a strange new world beneath his feet, the joy of discovery at his fingertips another time before it ends. He needs it like he needs oxygen, and he’s pretty sure Spock wants it, needs it as much as he does. 

It’s been a good run, Jim thinks wistfully, and says as much. 

“It has.” Spock murmurs, and Jim does not tease him for expressing something as un-Vulcan as an emotion. 

* * *

“Fascinating.”

Jim hums. “Fascinating-good, or fascinating-something might explode at any minute and you’re trying to project Vulcan composure in the face of imminent death?” 

Spock shoots him a flat look as he scans the faded Sondarian glyphs inscribed into the stone floor. “The former,” Spock utters dryly, well-used to Jim’s antics by this point. “The carbon dating of several etchings corresponds with the timing of the Early Dynastic Period of ancient human civilisation. The wedge-shaped strokes also bear a striking resemblance to Sumerian cuneiform script.” 

“Any idea what they say?” Jim asks curiously, as he peers into the crypt — it’s all low archways and dramatic architecture, shrouded in shadow and foreboding. Jim’s in no way scared of the dark, but this place is just giving him the creeps. “Perhaps a hint as to why the indigenous population that’s supposed to be here isn’t?” 

“I am running the script through the _Enterprise’s_ databases, we should be able to obtain an answer presently.” Spock replies shortly. 

“Something’s off.” Jim hates being the harbinger of doom, but it’s ridiculous the number of times his gut feeling has actually been fucking spot-on. “When last surveyed by Starfleet a hundred years ago, this place was thriving— a pre-warp civilisation getting the hang of training wheels. There’s nothing here on Beta Aurigae III but dust and hieroglyphics— that’s pretty fucking weird, even by our standards.” 

“I concur, Captain.” Spock’s still staring at the stone slabs with single-minded focus, and god, Jim’s ship is filled with space nerds, and as much as he adores every one of them, Spock’s dedication to scientific discovery is both endearing and just a mite aggravating. (Not like Jim has any leg to stand on— he’s geeked out over the Schwartz-Zippel lemma with the best of them)

Yeah, Jim’s had enough of staring at rocks older than god. “I’m going to take a walk. Clear my head,” he says unnecessarily. 

It’s eerie to have that amount of unblinking focus trained on you. Jim smirks, fidgeting and picking at the imaginary lint on his tunic sleeve, knowing that the action will make his Vulcan second in command twitch in irritation. Granted, Spock’s expression is nigh unreadable, a rarity given Jim’s familiarity with his facial expressions. “I will accompany you.” 

“I don’t mind if you stay with Giotto— I’ll just go for a quick breather around the square. Maybe peek at the structure to the east of it.” Jim says as he brushes the thin layer of dust that has managed to gather on his clothes from his being. 

“I believe it would be wise if I joined you, Captain, given that I have sent Lieutenant Giotto back to the ship after developing a mild allergic reaction to an immunological trigger on the planet’s surface.” Spock’s tone is serious as he meets Jim’s eyes. 

Right. “You sure?” It’s one thing to get tense and antsy, and quite another to actually eat into Spock’s official Science time. Jim doesn’t always get what the Science department does, but he does get drive and passion and scientific curiosity. They’ve learned each other over the years; he knows Spock lives for this kind of shit, and for his sake, Jim can wait out his restlessness a little longer. 

“Given your propensity to place yourself in novel situations, I would surely suffer the good doctor’s strident complaints in allowing you to wander around a new environment alone after just having recovered. I would prefer to retain the entirety of my auditory range.” Spock remarks, completely straight-faced, and hell, whoever came to the conclusion Vulcans didn’t have a sense of humour totally missed the fucking memo with that one. 

Jim smiles broadly. “Waiting on you then, Commander.” His hand outstretched, palm wide, inviting.

* * *

The structure to the east turns out to be a gargantuan monolith, carved from giant marbled stone, littered with more of the same glyphs, line after line down each of its eight sides. Something about it makes him uneasy, something he can’t quite put a finger on. Jim doesn’t say a thing as Spock scans the texts, adding them into the databank stores for upload to the Enterprise’s computers. 

Spock’s PADD chimes, but Jim doesn’t like the way Spock’s brows furrow at the analysed data. He doesn’t like the lack of sounds, the absence of wind whistling through vegetation — they must have walked at least two miles and not seen a single animal. He doesn’t like this at all. 

Fuck. “It’s a cenotaph.” It’s staring at his face, Jim’s seen this a million times before— stupid, how could he have missed it— so _stupid_. “Those lines— it’s an epitaph— they’re names, something bad happened, something extinction-level bad. There’s nothing here.” Jim swallows. 

“I believe your hypothesis is correct, Captain. The analysis of the ship’s computers of the glyphs from crypt foretells a devastating event that would wipe out most of the world’s population. A plague that the Sondarians believed to have been sent by their gods.” Spock says, and Jim fucking hates being right. 

“I hate plagues.” Jim says feelingly. 

“I too share your feelings on this.” Spock turns to face him, and Jim can see his eyes in the fading sunlight, dark and impossibly sad. “There is more data, however. The Sondarians consisted of two phenotypically different races whose philosophies were diametrically opposed. In the aftermath of the plague, both sides believed the epidemic was sent as punishment by their deities for allowing the other party’s continued existence on the planet.” 

“They massacred each other.” Jim finishes, horrified.

“Yes.” 

“Jesus.” Another thought— “Giotto wasn’t feeling well— we need to call Bones right _now_ , enact quarantine order code 7-10—” Fuck, double fuck. He looks at Spock, feeling slightly ill. They could both be exposed. 

“Yes, Captain.” To his credit, Spock is all professionalism and poise as he comms Sickbay with the quarantine order. Jim can’t bear to stare at the monolith any longer; he busies himself with requesting a beam-up from the Transporter room. 

“Aye sir, there appears to be some natural interference caused by the structure you’re standing next to. I’d suggest moving past the clearing several dozen feet away from you. A quarter of a mile should be adequate to safely transport you aboard.” Scotty says, voice flickering and faint and really, could this day get any better? 

“We’re walking,” he informs Spock wearily. “Phasers out and set to stun, just in case.” 

* * *

The forest is silent but for the crunching of leaves beneath their feet. 

Jim doesn’t do well with quietude, not after three months spent hiding in terrified silence with a dozen children. In Jim’s experience, any place this quiet? Nothing good. 

Jim’s instincts, damn them, have always been pretty spot-on. Wary and on edge, Jim hears the pressure sensor depress under Spock’s feet, the sharp click driving his instincts to push forward, to move as he sees the shine of glossy metal emerge from between the trees. 

Spock.

Thinking was overrated anyway. 

Jim moves, momentum propelling him into Spock’s startled frame, his body weight slamming Spock into the forest floor. 

It is not so hard to die for someone you care about, Jim thinks, as he hears the unmistakable sound of steel meeting soft, pliable flesh, the burst of fire along his side sending stars skittering across his eyes. Jim knows Spock well enough to know the look upon his face is implacable horror. Guilt is an easily accessible emotion, but it’s hard to feel sorry in the face of that. 

* * *

Vulcans do not dream. 

And yet Spock does.

Tonight, as Jim lies in a bed in the Sick Bay, Spock dreams of an unfamiliar landscape, gnarled trees and rotting grass swallow his footsteps as the immutable sound and thunder of his heart beats a steady percussion in his chest. He runs amid the screams, the echoes of abruptly cut-off intakes of breath pouring ichor into his throat, choking him until he can run no more. A cut above his eye bleeds sluggishly, he wipes the smears of red away. 

“Run, Jim—” his uncle shouts before someone brings the weight of a plow upon his head.

Tarsus, with its blood-red skies, overarching sunsets and three moons. Tarsus, wild and beautiful, until it was not. 

Spock has never been to Tarsus IV; it is enough to shake him from the innate illogicality of a dreaming— this is Jim’s dream, flowing through the link which Spock now shares, Jim who wipes blood from his brow, Jim whose heart hammers a rhythm in his chest. Jim, who as a child ran terrified for his life in the midst of a massacre, and Spock will not let him re-live this suffering again. 

At Spock’s level of telepathic competence, it is easy enough to morph the nature of a dreamscape once one is aware of it. It is effortless to draw upon a shared memory, one that Spock is quick to remember, a memory from four months ago he will admit he thinks of fondly. The landscape morphs around them, and Spock is seated beside Nyota in the Recreation Deck, all eyes upon them as Nyota sings the lyrics of an ancient Vulcan song about a maiden waiting for her lost bondmate, as Spock plays the lyre accompaniment. It is a song that is familiar to him, well-loved by his mother, one he performs adequately within the limits of his skill. 

Spock remembers Jim’s face, soft and open in the dim lighting, eyes closed as he mouthed the lyrics in Vuhlkansu, words he likely did not understand beyond the enjoyment of its pleasurable tune. 

It is enough to see that look on Jim’s face now, and think obliquely of _t’hy’la_. 

* * *

Jim dreams of lush cornfields, hands brushing through golden stalks, the feel of the sun kissing his face and leaving freckles in its wake. The crops never last, Jim knows, but that doesn’t stop Jim from trying. 

Jim always runs when the screaming starts. Uncle Peter dies, and Jim runs even when branches scrape a nasty cut above his eyebrow, runs even when the blood drips into his eyes and he can’t see anything but red. Run, Jim, is what Uncle Peter says, and so Jim does. 

The starving comes next, and Jim hates this bit— only it doesn’t happen, and somehow Jim’s sitting in the Recreation Deck, listening to Uhura sing a beautiful Vulcan song about lovers and loss. Jim doesn’t speak Vulcan, but he knows the words well enough to keep in tune. 

A word, unfamiliar and yet haunting, catches in his mind, and Jim closes his eyes at the sensation it invokes.

_T’hy’la._

Jim opens his eyes. 

* * *

Jim’s eyes are a vivid shade of blue, a hue that Spock is aware is rare even among humans with their considerable epigenetic variety of ocular pigmentation. It is heartening to see that shade now as Jim blinks steadily, his hand squeezing tight over Spock’s fingers. 

_Sorry_ , he says over the connection of skin and immutable bond. _I swear I don’t do this on purpose._

It’s enough to make something deep within Spock clench at the words, hearing Jim’s voice sincere and tinged with remorse. Out loud, Spock says gravely, “Your demise would cause me significant emotional distress. I am well aware of your propensity to cheat death, but I would kindly request you keep such events to a minimum.” 

Jim’s amusement trickles through the bond. _I’ll try my best._ He winces. _Ship okay?_

“All is well. Security Chief Giotto has since recovered from a mild allergic reaction. You are the only casualty from the events of Beta Aurigae III.” 

_Awesome. Could you call Bones?_ _The breathing tube is uncomfortable as fuck._

“I shall retrieve him immediately.” Spock stands. “We have much to discuss, Jim.”

 _Not going_ _anywhere_ , Jim says quietly.

Spock finds it is difficult to let go of Jim’s hand. 

* * *

Jim’s mind has a bad habit of going from zero to a hundred in six seconds flat, a dizzying array of almost-instantaneous compartmentalisation and analysis built upon years of experience evaluating the multitude of problems which assail the constant responsibility of command.

Yet what bothers him, more than the fact that he’s in a fucking Sick Bay for the umpteenth time, is the way Spock’s mouth is a taut straight line, tension reverberating from shoulders held ramrod straight. He knows Spock, better than he knows his right hand— there is very little that makes Spock uneasy, and it disturbs him to see it now. 

“Good, you’re awake.” Bones bustles into the room, ruining Jim’s train of thought, Spock trailing silently in his wake. “Time to get your ass out of bed.” Despite his demeanour, Bones’s hands are gentle, easing him upright before taking a look at the monitors. “Alright, take a deep breath— okay, Jim, excellent. Can you do a good, hard cough for me?” 

Jim complies, wincing as he does so. God, his breath smells _rank_. 

“We’ll take the breathing tube out— just bear with me here—” The tube comes out, and Jim gags as everything goes sideways for a brief moment. 

“Oh, come off it, you big baby— breathe, yes, that’s better— good, Jim.” Bones mutters mock-irritatedly, his hand a comforting weight on Jim’s back. He suffers the indignity of Bones poking and prodding at random body parts, resisting the urge to childishly bat his hand away. 

“Can I go back to my cabin—” His voice is raspy from disuse, but the look Bones shoots him is venomous enough that Jim knows he’s understood him, and Jim’s a goddamn genius but he’s never been smart enough to know when to quit while he’s ahead. 

“Oh, come on, Bones—” Jim interjects. 

“You— shut up. And you—” the glare Bones directs at Spock could peel paint—“I don’t want to hear a damn peep from you either. Both of you need to work on your innate desire to sacrifice yourselves upon the altar of your own stupidity. Each time you two numbskulls pull this shit, I’m the one who pays for it. Pulling a damn miracle outta my ass isn’t easy— I’m a doctor, not a goddamn magician, Jim! There ain’t enough glue in the universe to put you back together for the thousandth time, I swear to god.” 

“Jeez, Bones—” Jim grouses, a tad more quietly than before. 

“No, you don’t fucking get it. Don’t you ever do that again, Jim. I came this close to losing you, kid, and I can’t go through it again.” Bones says bitterly, running a hand through dishevelled hair. Guiltily, Jim takes in the dark half-moons bruising the sallow skin below his eyes. 

“Dr McCoy is right.” Spock says somberly. “You are not infallible or indispensable, Jim. Your survival is imperative to our continuing mission.” 

_Your goodness and virtue have irrevocably changed this ship and its crew, and with your death, the universe would be lesser for it._

Spock’s voice whispers, unbearably gentle in his head, and Jim’s argument putters out and leaves his head entirely. 

* * *

It is a rare sight to see Jim Kirk speechless, and Spock resists the urge to wring his hands in distress. The state of Jim’s shielding is inadequate at its current functional capabilities, and it is Spock’s error in allowing such an intimate thought to hover near the peripheries of the bond. 

Doctor McCoy excuses himself from Jim’s room, with a low grumble of, “God save me from idiots. I’ve got to go… deal with something.” 

“You break it, you buy it,” he directs a muttered aside to Spock before he leaves, a frivolous human colloquialism which Spock steadily ignores. 

“My apologies, Jim. There is much we must speak about,” Spock says quietly amid the weighted silence. 

“Like how I can hear your voice in my head?” Jim asks. “I heard your voice in my dreams. You called me— uh, tee-hy-lah?”

“ _T’hy’la_.” Spock clarifies, enunciating the word slowly for Jim’s benefit. “It is a word derived from ancient Vuhlkansu, originating from pre-Surakian texts. It means brother, or friend.” 

“Not that I’m not flattered, Spock, but what does it have to do with—”

“Millennia ago, when Vulcan was still made of numerous warring factions, ancient Vulcan warriors were capable of forming bonds with their warrior-kin. The profound affinity of kindred souls for each other often led to the formation of the _t’hy’la_ bond _._ It was seen as a mark of deep intimacy and trust, and it is still revered among my people today.” Spock states, allowing years of academia to guide his words. Jim’s eyes are wide and bright against the faint pallor of his skin and Spock does not meet his gaze now. 

“I have long recognised you as _t’hy’la_ — the potential for the development of the warrior bond has existed since the moment your skin made contact with mine. However, it was not appropriate for discussion given that its creation would have provided a connection most humans, unused to the intimacy of a mind link, would balk at.”

“Yeah, no kidding.” Jim mutters quietly. 

“Your death was not something I could bear again. I made a choice to preserve your life through any means necessary, and in doing so, I created a bond between us without your consent. For that, I am deeply sorry.” Discomfiture curves the blades of his shoulders, shame flooding his being as he struggles to maintain his emotional controls. 

Comfort, reassurance, trust— unadulterated and pure filters through the mind-link. Jim’s mind is a starburst of fiery incandescence, resplendent in its brightness and Spock can only stand in wonder of the beauty of his _t’hy’la’s_ mind. “Spock, how could I be mad at you for saving my life?” Jim says, his touch gentle against the intimacy of Spock’s skin. “This— whatever this is, between us— has always been unspoken, but my faith in you is absolute. A little bit of telepathy between friends isn’t going to scare me off.”

“You are my dearest friend. I do not wish to cause you discomfort.” Spock admits quietly. “If you wished for its removal, it would not be difficult to arrange a course correction to New Vulcan.” He does not mention its significance to Vulcan culture, nor the potential damage to his bonding cortex the removal of the bond may cause. Jim— his Captain, brother, friend, _t’hy’la_ — will invariably take precedence. 

Jim pauses for brief seconds. “Okay, I’ll admit you took me by surprise earlier. But I trust you. You’ve always respected my boundaries, and this doesn’t change a damn thing.” 

“Jim, it is wise to give it some thought before making a decision. The bond’s intimacy will never be fully eradicated with shielding. Though I will be able to reinforce your mental shields such that no breach of privacy will occur, this connection between us will always exist. Powerful emotions are likely to pass through the bond despite shielding—” Spock insists before Jim cuts him off. 

“Spock, _t’hy’la_. My answer was never going to be no,” Jim pronounces the word carefully, squeezing Spock’s hand. The bare truth of it, uttered with gentleness and candor, destabilises Spock’s carefully crafted controls, its rightness echoing within the fragility of Spock’s heart. 

Spock has little choice but to yield in the face of that. 

* * *

The tail end of their five-year mission coincides with the end of the year, and Jim obtains permission for the crew to spend three weeks of shore leave on Earth before returning to Starfleet Headquarters for weeks of compulsory debriefings. 

Their five year mission is ending, and as Jim watches hundreds of his crew disembark the _Enterprise_ , he’s left with a lingering feeling of bittersweet, as if he’s watching the closing act of an excellent holo he doesn’t want to end.

He almost can’t believe it, but it’s over, finally, and Jim knows what’s in store for him in the immediate future once he lands, after he’s struggled to distill the possessions of the last five years of his life into a medium-sized duffel bag. He’ll wave goodbye to the people he calls family and be surrounded by the media circus, cameras and flashing lights creating halos in his vision, microphones shoved in his face greedy for a soundbite. Their unparalleled five-year mission is a success, of course— they all want a piece of him, the handsome, dashing Starfleet Captain with fly-away blond hair and a winning smile. 

What’s next for Jim Kirk? They’ll ask, and Jim will give them a laugh and a grin, a carefully-crafted empty answer approved by Starfleet Public Relations slipping from his lips, something so devoid of truth and meaning that it’ll ache to speak the lie. 

The truth is Jim Kirk doesn’t know. He’d sold his San Francisco apartment before the five-year mission, and he’s unsure regarding that state of the Kirk farmhouse, given that there hasn’t been a Kirk on firm ground in Iowa in nearly a decade. He could use the quarters at HQ availed to all officers on shore leave, but what he’d do there on his own for three whole weeks is a mystery. 

He could get drunk and laid every damn day if he wanted to, but the idea of two weeks of pure hedonism makes him cringe instead. God, he’s really gotten old if the thought of meaningless sex doesn’t appeal any longer. Guess he’s grown up after all. And what then? Does he want to fly, to have another five-year mission? Would he want to if his crew ( _his family_ ) is disassembled and scattered throughout the galaxy? They all have dreams, his crew, and he can’t hold them back, not when they’re brilliant and destined for bigger things than he can give them. 

Could he do this without Bones, or Sulu, or Uhura, or Spock? 

As of on cue, Jim feels the hint of warm awareness of Spock approaching through the bond even before he hears the knock on the ‘fresher door— and Jim grins as his First Officer steps into view, silently raising an arched eyebrow at the mess of partially-folded clothing dumped in the middle of Jim’s bed.

“Captain, I believe you have been greatly misinformed regarding what constitutes the art of ‘packing’.” 

“Jesus, everyone’s a critic.” Jim rolls his eyes and laughs, gesturing for Spock to take a seat on the bed’s edge. Without hesitation, Spock does, and Jim has a stray thought— fleeting and unnecessary— of what their future might be like when they are so deeply comfortable in each other’s presence, so relentlessly at ease that Spock would willingly sit on Jim’s bed without invitation. 

“Thought you’d have left by now,” Jim says instead. “Aren’t you and Uhura off to Kenya to spend time with her family? She told me the shuttle leaves in an hour.” 

The look Spock gives him is coloured with overt confusion. “I believe Mister Scott will be joining Nyota on her trip to visit her family.” He says, finally, and oh, when did that happen? 

“Oh.” Jim swallows. He tries again. “I’m sorry to hear that.”

“It is of no consequence.” Spock says serenely. “Will you be returning to Iowa, Jim?” 

“Not sure what I’ll do, to be honest.” Jim frowns. “There’s nothing much back for me there, but I sold my San Francisco apartment just before we left for the five-year mission. I might just hang around HQ and finish up the reports there.” 

“I see.” Spock murmurs. He lifts his gaze to meet Jim’s before reaching to place a steady hand on Jim’s sleeved arm, an action that makes Jim’s eyes widen and a familiar tightness to squeeze in his chest. “You are welcome to share my accommodations for the duration of the shore leave,” Spock states, and Jim can’t hide the look of shock flashing across his face.

“Spock, I couldn’t—” 

“It would not be an imposition.” And Jim swallows because Spock’s gaze is filled with a secret warmth he’s never seen, at least not directed at him. “I would be gratified if you were to spend shore leave with me.” 

Jim hesitates, but only for a second. He smiles, because yeah, why the hell not. 

* * *

By the end of the day, Jim has eaten three scoops of ice cream despite the chilly temperatures, walked a horribly meandering route along the San Francisco pier and laughed more than he has in weeks. 

Spock does not laugh or smile like Jim, but words of pleasure and enjoyment are unnecessary when a bond intertwines them more deeply than the sharing of intimate thoughts ever could. 

Jim is happy. It is not a difficult realisation for Spock to recognise he is happy too. 

Spock’s apartment is clean and tastefully decorated, but it is the sheer view of San Francisco Bay that takes Jim’s breath away. The loveseat just below the window is wide enough for two, and as Jim gazes out onto the bay, Spock cannot help but appreciate this facet of Jim, quiet and at peace, the curve of his brow free of tension. Jim sits close enough to touch, a hair’s breadth of distance between them, his hair gently tousled by the wind. His eyes are a beautiful shade of blue, fathomless and deep, a comparable shade to the ever-changing sea.

“What did you wish to tell me, on Beta Aurigae III?” Spock asks instead. 

“Oh, that. It hardly matters, now.”

“Does it? It seemed critically important then when you wished to use your last breaths to voice it.” Spock counters. 

“Well, yes.” Jim surrenders. His fingers are a gentle pressure against Spock’s palm, and Spock shivers from the contact. Jim’s not shielding now, and Spock looks into those blue eyes, bright with pleasure, and digs deep into the tendrils of the bond to tease apart the brilliance of unidentified emotions hidden behind that cocksure smile. 

Oh. He knows what emotion that is— it’s desire. And longing, unconquerable like the sea, soaking Spock with wave after wave — and Spock knows.

“You are in love with me,” Spock states, and it is a truth he has perhaps always known, deep within himself. 

Jim’s eyes close momentarily, but when they open, they are no less brilliant and blue. “Yes,” he says simply, and Spock is undone by the depth of feeling infused in that one simple word. “It’s okay— I don’t expect anything from you. It doesn’t have to change this, us. You’re my best friend, and that last time, I thought— I just didn’t want it to go unsaid. You and I, we made a promise not to keep things from one another. It seemed the right moment as any.” 

“How long?” Spock asks.

“Oh man. I know I’m doing full disclosure, but it’s kinda pathetic if I admit this— let’s just say a while and leave it at that.” Jim winces hard. 

“I see.” And Spock looks back on the intervening years, watches as Jim’s smiles and laughter warm with time, his gaze gentle and affectionate even as Spock declines yet another invitation to chess to partake in Nyota’s company, the inscrutable emotion in his eyes when Spock teleports down to another planet for an away mission that Jim cannot follow, the evident relief in his frame when his First Officer returns unharmed. He thinks of the times they sit side by side, reading, playing chess, talking, the familiar pressure of Jim’s hand on his shoulder, on his hand, eyes warm and beckoning, his smile deep and full of joy, open affection in his gaze, the brightness superseding the luminosity of a white dwarf entering supernova. At its heart is Jim, courageous, beautiful, flawed Jim in all his glory, and all Spock can think is — _t’hy’la._

 _T’hy’la_. A deep friendship beyond his imaginings, a loyalty between them that speaks of a brotherhood not borne of blood. But also, a lover, bourgeoning with passion and desire, and soulmate, the other half of his being, the other half of his _katra_. He is everything. 

He thinks back to that one particular night aboard the Enterprise, early on in their mission, remembering Jim’s soft smile and easy laughter among the spread of chess pieces and easy conversation. It is in that moment that Spock thinks he fell in love, quietly and unassumingly, _incomprehensibly_ , with the beauty of Jim’s smile and soul, and if Jim is everything, this is what it means to be complete. 

“You know, you’re taking this remarkably well,” Jim says, hands nervously tousling already-windswept hair. Spock looks at him, takes in the moment of rare anxiety on a face most cherished, and thinks: mine.

* * *

Spock surges forward to press Jim into the couch, ignoring the startled yelp Jim emits as he falls backwards, a steady hand cushioning the back of Jim’s skull curling to card restlessly through the strands. 

“Wha- mmph.” Jim says, eyes wide, before Spock silences him with the press of his lips against his. 

He is home, between the cradle of Spock’s lips, and the gentleness of Spock’s hands, the feeling of Spock surrounding him— and it’s _amazing,_ but Jim could never just sit back and bask in the brilliance of the moment, with Spock caressing his face and stroking his meld points, kissing him like a precious, precious thing. Jim always, always pushes the status quo— so he presses firmly against Spock’s body, licks the seam of his lips to gain entry and deepens the kiss to something more. 

And yeah, it’s the right thing to do, when Spock gives as good as he’s got— Jim is distantly, pleasantly surprised that Spock kisses with the same intensity he applies to all tasks, all focus and precision with a hint of possessiveness, warmth surging through the pit of his belly as he pulls Spock even closer until they are front to front. Their hands tangle in each other as he lets out an embarrassingly breathy moan, his arousal a firm press against Spock’s own. The bond _sings_ — a steady pulse of _wantlovedesireyoualwaysyou_ streaming through the recesses of Jim’s mind, and Jim is unsure of the origins of the amalgamation of thought, if it comes from Jim’s lust-addled brain or from across the bond.

Spock migrates his attentions to lave the corner of Jim’s jaw, teasing the pulse point at Jim’s neck with the hint of teeth, his hips meeting Jim’s thrust for thrust, and god, Jim is dangerously, embarrassingly close to release, he can’t—

Jim pulls back, gasping. Spock at least is in a similar state, eyes wide, pupils blown black with a tiny rim of brown, his breath coming in audible pants. Jim’s the reason for the shreds in Spock’s self-control, and it’s hard ( _haha_ ) not to feel satisfaction in the face of that. 

A hint of disapproval transfers through the bond, tinged with amusement and exasperation. 

“Sorry,” Jim mouths contritely, laughing as he runs two fingers gently along the back of Spock’s hand. He doesn’t miss the palpable shudder in Spock’s frame, and it’s totally a bare-faced lie, he’s not sorry at all. 

_Jim_ , the bond whispers, equal admonishment and longing, a frisson of pleasure curling down his spine. 

“There is a third meaning to the word _t’hy’la_ , one which I neglected to inform you about as I did not believe it relevant to our relationship.” Spock states, his tone professorial even as he grasps Jim’s hand lightly to interlace their fingers together. His gaze is warm as he presses a gentle kiss to their interlocked hands. God, Jim has fantasised about this so many times, and his imagination has never even come close to the intimacy, the wonder of this moment. 

“Tell me.” Jim says, even though he knows the answer. It means _you_ , this, forever. The bond thrums with desire, with completeness, and Jim basks in the feeling. 

“It means lover. The other half of one’s soul,” Spock states carefully. “Pre-Surakian publications on the warrior bond between _t’hy’la_ primarily describe a platonic bond of brotherhood. However, a small anecdotal pool of individuals highlighted a romantic or sexual aspect to the bond, which I did not anticipate would form between us.”

“But it did.”

“Yes. What is between us is more than a warrior bond — it is a pair bond that seeks consummation.”

“Do you want it, Spock?” Jim asks. 

“You must be aware of all the facts before we proceed— should we proceed with sexual intercourse, the bond will deepen between us and become the mating bond that is shared between my people. The depth of intimacy will be unparalleled and it will be difficult for you to maintain your privacy until you learn to shield your mind adequately from telepathic transfer. I will always be aware of you, as you will be of me, and I estimate based on our degree of mental compatibility that there is an eighty-three point six five percent probability that we will be able to communicate telepathically through the bond without physical contact.” Spock pauses. “I would caution you, Jim, that if you choose this, the bond is akin to a human marriage with the added caveat that it is permanent. The bond will not be easily undone and will have deleterious effects on our health if a decision is made to break it. If you choose this, Jim, it is forever.”

“You didn’t answer my question, Spock. What do you want?”

“You have always been my greatest friend. My _katra_ has long recognised you as _t’hy’la_ , beloved to me. You always will be, irrespective what decision we make today.” Spock says softly. 

Fuck, and who said Vulcans couldn’t be romantic? 

Jim kisses him, hard and rough with no regrets, and lets the possession in his touch be his answer. 

* * *

Spock has not been unaware of Jim’s physical attributes. He is considered classically aesthetically pleasing, and Spock would have to be exceedingly unobservant not to appreciate the symmetry of Jim’s features, the fine musculature of Jim’s chest and abdominal muscles, the pleasing contour of his smile. The unmarked smoothness of youth has given way to the creases of age, the faint crinkle of laugh lines at the corner of his eyes, and yet he is still a beautiful, breathtaking man.

It is one thing to see Jim, tinged with laughter and good humour, his unclothed torso damp and flushed from the exertions of exercise, and quite another to see him divested of his clothing, the planes of his body illuminated by lamplight, an unfamiliar gleam in his eyes. 

Spock is not unfamiliar, in theory, with the concept of desire, the drive to claim and be possessed in equal measure a natural state to Vulcans born in the fires of _pon farr_. To feel that stirring brand of need, and yet be able to maintain the reins of his self-control, speaks of something other — something boundless and infinite, a connection Spock has never envisioned for himself in all his years. _T’hy’la_ , his _katra_ whispers, has always meant completion, a home for a planet-less Vulcan in a reality where a home may be more than just a place, a ship more than a means of employment, a crew more than colleagues and friends. 

Jim touches his face and his body with a reverence Spock does not feel, hands gentle and coaxing as he slowly guides Spock to the comfort of the bed. Spock will not begrudge Jim the effortless ease experience has granted the fluidity of his limbs, beyond nipping at his skin to erase the memory of previous lovers from his flesh. 

Jim— his beloved, lying among the slate grey regulation sheets of his bed, naked beneath him, the slide of skin on skin a whispered psalm to the thundering monotony of his heart. _You are a veritable banquet laid out before me, and all I wish to do is feast,_ Spock murmurs across the strengthening bond, and it is enough to see Jim tremble from it. 

“Fuck, don’t say things like that.” Jim says, voice heady with desire. “I wanted to do this slow and easy, to do this right—” 

“If it is your wish to hold back for my benefit, it is unnecessary.” A hint of a smile graces his lips. “What I desire at this moment is you.” 

“You charmer, you.” Jim quips, though the softness in his eyes does not abate. “But you deserve the best I have to offer, and I won’t let our first time be anything short of spectacular.” 

“Very well.” Spock says, and Jim flips them over, taking possession of his mouth again. It is remarkably easy to cede control when it is Jim who presses soft kisses to the curve of his collar bone, tongues the dip and furrow where his hip meets thigh. Jim whispers love in every breath and touch, reminding him that in this between them, there is no weakness in vulnerability. 

They are tangled in each other, a union of flesh and spirit so enmeshed it is difficult to see where one begins and the other ends. _Meld with me_. The thought echoes through the meld. _Yes. Always, yes._

Buried in the heated embrace of Jim’s body, Spock reaches for Jim’s meld points, and is surrounded by the swirling consciousness of Jim, his mind rich and sweet like the _kaasa_ fruit Spock loved as a child. 

_Kaasa fruit, huh_. Jim smirks, sultry and salacious. _You think I’m lush and ripe for the taking._ Even in the silken depths of the mind meld, Jim’s voice is breathy yet sharp-edged, each touch of his mind a caress, the sweet, sharp joy of pleasure spiking as they are twined together, parted and never parted.

 _No, t’hy’la. You remind me of home_. 

Jim interweaves his fingers with his, a promise of forever as the relentless pull and tide of completion drags them under the waves together. 

* * *

After, when Jim is loose-limbed and sated on sex, Spock runs his hands gently through his bondmate’s blonde hair. Jim’s eyes are dark and heavy-lidded by dim lamplight, his fingers tracing the arc and wave of the ritual mark curving the length of Spock’s bicep. 

“You finally going to tell me what this means?” Jim asks lazily, curling further into the expanse of Spock’s body. Spock is yet again reminded of Jim’s similarity to the earth feline, his naked form drowsy and languorous in the cooling air. 

“It is the mark of a completed _kahs-wan_ — a coming-of-age ritual for Vulcan children,” Spock informs him, repressing a shudder as Jim’s hands are replaced by the warm suction of his mouth. 

“I thought body art is illogical,” Jim smirks, his grin deliberately provoking as he languidly sends a filthy rendering of their bodies wrapped in coitus through the channels of the bond. The ritual mark features prominently in Jim’s imaginings, and Spock does not hide the surge of arousal that floods him now. 

“It is not body art,” Spock states clinically, even as he rolls them over. “It is a mark that symbolises adulthood in Vulcan youths.”

“Spock, c’mon. It’s a fucking tattoo.” Jim says irreverently, a gasp leaving his lips as Spock takes them both in hand. Spock decides he enjoys the sound. A rigorous scientist would utilise the scientific method to prove his hypothesis. Further experimentation with a robust research methodology is required. 

“We may agree to disagree, _t’hy’la_.” Spock mutters, worrying the curve of Jim’s neck with light nips. 

“Perfectly fine by me.” Jim says, before redirecting Spock’s lips to his own. 

please check out the NSFW E-rated version of this pic [here](https://archiveofourown.org/works/18804478/chapters/60628147)

* * *

“What’s next for you?” Jim asks much later, after they’ve slept and showered and eaten their fill. Jim’s never been an early riser, but the glimpse of the pink-dusted sun rising above the clouds is magnificent, and not for the first time, Jim wonders if the stark beauty of tranquility is what he desires, or if it’s merely the respite from blaring klaxons and ship requisitions that brings him peace. It’s beautiful— but beautiful gets old, boring, even— and Jim’s well-aware that his feet have never enjoyed being tied to dry land. 

“Your name’s on the list for consideration of a captaincy, Spock. You’d make an excellent one. I would know.” Jim says pointedly, eliciting an arched eyebrow from Spock. 

“Jim, I do not wish to be a Captain. My only wish is to serve with you,” Spock says carefully. 

“I don’t know about that, Spock.” Jim frowns, the remnants of his toast neglected. “Binding your career to mine— you might change your mind one day.” 

“I can assure you I will not. I have long since decided that my place is by your side.” Spock replies, with just a hint of mulish stubbornness that Jim stares back in surprise. 

“That’s — I don’t know what to say.”

“You need not say anything. It is my decision,” Spock says without pause. What a smooth fucking operator Jim’s sort-of Vulcan-married. “And what do you desire, Jim? Do you wish to serve another five-year mission? Alternatively, you may also choose to take up the position of Vice-admiral Starfleet Command wishes you to have.”

“I never told you about that,” Jim says pointedly, and Spock’s eyes narrow at him in silence.

“Well, of course you’d know about it.” Jim’s voice is a sigh as he idly runs his hand through his hair. 

“Jim.” A huff, gentle admonishment, and subtle fondness filling a single syllable. 

“I don’t know— would it be selfish to say I’m not ready to give up flying?” Jim admits, running gentle fingers against the back of Spock’s hand. “This place is beautiful— don’t get me wrong— I’m just not ready to call it home.”

“On the contrary, Jim. I would be gratified to continue serving with you aboard the _Enterprise_ in the years to come.” Spock smiles, his mouth a small gentle curve just for him, and yeah, Jim’s fucking screwed, he’s basically fallen down the rabbit hole of stupidly-in-love, and he’s not coming back from this one (alright, fine— he knew that already when he said an enthusiastic fuck yes to the Vulcan marriage proposal five hours ago). 

“It’s always going to be like this, isn’t it? You and me, in the vastness of space— man, and here I was fretting about how everyone would be leaving, wondering if I should even ask them to stay.” Jim says instead of falling to his knees then and there. 

“Would this group of individuals include Doctor McCoy, Lieutenant Sulu, Ensign Chekov, Lieutenant Commander Scott, Nyota and myself?” Spock asks, a little too shiftily. 

“Uh, yeah?” Jim scratches his head. 

“All six aforementioned individuals have indicated an interest in serving another five-year term under your captaincy.” Spock says not-smugly, the very picture of Vulcan First Officer excellence. “The documents are located within your PADD and merely require your signature for confirmation.” 

Jim stares. What the fucking fuck. 

“I find it peculiar, _t’hy’la_ , that you are unaware of the far-reaching effects your captaincy has had on the _Enterprise_. The statistics are unparalleled: eighty-eight point five percent of the existing crew have elected to return in some capacity. Sixty-one point five percent have been offered promotions, and fifty-six percent have been offered a higher position aboard other Federation flagships. Of those fifty-six percent, all of them have elected to stay. In addition, seven hundred applicants have applied for the remaining fifty-four places. The Enterprise is the most highly-contested ship in the fleet, Jim— because of you.” Spock says, amusement, soft as dappled sunlight, permeates through the bond. 

“I— Fuck, Spock. What would I do without you,” Jim says dumbly. 

“Evidently, very little.” Spock replies archly, teasing and filled with soft, muted affection, and as much as Jim could get used to this— breakfast in bed with morning breath-laced kisses, tangled sheets and the bliss of an uninterrupted night’s sleep with a lover, Jim wants all that and more, amidst the phaser fire and away missions and his First Officer at his back. Jim wants the whole revoltingly domestic shebang aboard a damn starship, and yeah, he might be nauseatingly in love but it doesn’t fucking matter, not when he has Spock, the other half of his heart and soul. 

God, he loves him, more than life itself. It _shows_. 

* * *

Jim’s body is filled with coiled excitement as the turbolift runs from floor to floor. 

They are silent within the turbolift, and even as Jim’s about to reach out, Spock’s fingers are already tangling with his. _T’hy’la_ , Spock says, soft and warm across the connection of the mind link. Parted from me and never parted, never and always touching and touched. Jim just grins at him as the turbo lift doors slide open and they let go, Captain and First Officer again. 

The halls are not yet filled with the bustle of arriving crewmen and junior officers, the corridors spartan but for the occasional traversing crewman tipping their heads in welcome to the Captain and First Officer. The ship’s passages are uncharacteristically quiet, and Jim looks forward to hearing those familiar floors filled with the raucous laughter of the crew— his crew. Family. 

They walk in unison until Jim pauses, eyes tracing the familiar curve and contour of his ship. Every moment of these last six years has been ingrained in her steadfast titanium frame, preserved within the bones of her memory despite the frequency in which she has been broken apart and rebuilt again. His lady has endured for him, for her crew, and Jim will embrace all his doubt and fear of the unknown for more time with her. 

The ship purrs a soothing even hum, the steady reverberation fond to his ears. He strokes the gleaming curve of her wall. “Thank you,” he murmurs. “Once more unto the breach,[5] old friend.” 

“Shakespeare, Captain?” Spock’s gaze is soft, gentled with open affection despite the decorum in his frame. 

“Oh, you know me, Mister Spock. The Bard has always been a fitting mouthpiece for illogical human sentiment.” Jim remarks, tone light and teasing. 

Spock’s eyes crinkle with the curve of a Vulcan smile. “Indeed, Captain. However, it has been many months since I have found the human capacity for sentiment to be an absurdity of your species.” The quirk of an eyebrow makes Jim grin. “I would be remiss to label it as a disadvantage when I have found human sentiment satisfying.” 

_You just like what I said last night when I tried that thing with my tongue,_ Jim whispers wickedly across the bond. Spock’s ears flush a faint green, but he doesn’t dignify Jim’s statement with a response. 

Jim laughs, a full-throated guffaw filled with lightness and joy, a hand brushing Spock’s shoulder in familiar intimacy. “Sorry,” he says, but he’s not sorry at all. “Walk with me?” 

The warmth in Spock’s eyes, hinting at an eternity. “Always.” 

* * *

_One half of me is yours, the other half yours. Mine own, I would say; but if mine, then yours, and so all yours._

The Merchant of Venice 

Act 3, Scene 2

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Footnotes:
> 
> 1 I hope you will soon understand the depth of your heart, Spock, son of Sarek.[return to text]
> 
> 2The Old Astronomer to His Pupil - Sarah Williams[return to text]
> 
> 3We have differences. May we, together, become greater than the sum of both of us.[return to text]
> 
> 4Jabberwocky - Lewis Carroll[return to text]
> 
> 5Henry V, Act III, Scene I - William Shakespeare[return to text]


End file.
